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10th September
Dear Daddy,
He has gone, and we are missing him! 
When you get accustomed to people or places or ways of living, and then have them snatched away, it does leave an awfully empty, gnawing sort of sensation. 
I'm finding Mrs. Semple's conversation pretty unseasoned food. College opens in two weeks and I shall be glad to begin work again. 
I have worked quite a lot this summer though— six short stories and seven poems. 
Those I sent to the magazines all came back with the most courteous promptitude. But I don't mind. It's good practice. 
Master Jervie read them— he brought in the post, so I couldn't help his knowing— and he said they were DREADFUL. 
They showed that I didn't have the slightest idea of what I was talking about. (Master Jervie doesn't let politeness interfere with truth.) 
But the last one I did— just a little sketch laid in college— he said wasn't bad; 
and he had it typewritten, and I sent it to a magazine. They've had it two weeks; maybe they're thinking it over.
You should see the sky! There's the queerest orange-coloured light over everything. We're going to have a storm.
It commenced just that moment with tremendously big drops and all the shutters banging. 

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