Whirling across Canal Street, the cab was just turning into Royal when I caught sight of Miss Summers and Harrod on the banquette, and obedient to my shout the driver pulled up. They turned back to greet me. Yes, Vinton had sent word about the review and the good news that there was yet a day before they could sail. The colonel and his sister were going to attend to some business on Canal Street, and hurry back to meet him at the lodgings at half-past two; then they would all drive up to see the review near Tivoli Circle. Would I join them? Amory was to command the troop, as the doctor thought Major Vinton not yet strong enough to ride. But where was Amory? had I seen him? All this was asked rapidly, as time was short, and almost as rapidly I learned that Kitty was at home, and Pauline's eyes plainly said waiting and anxious. I decided on driving thither at once and confessing the enormity of my sin of omission. I would find her in their kind landlady's parlor, said Miss Summers. So in I went. In ten minutes Kitty Carrington fluttered into the parlor where I was awaiting her. No need to tell that hers had been a night of unhappiness, a day of bitter anxiety. Her sweet face was very pale and wan, her eyes red with weeping. How to break my news I did not know. She looked wonderingly, wistfully, at the solemnity of my face, gave me her hand with hardly a word of greeting, and stood by the table waiting for me to tell my errand, forgetful of the civility of asking me to be seated. "Miss Kitty, I am in great trouble. Nearly three hours ago I volunteered to hurry down to the levee with a letter that Major Vinton had for Mr. Amory, but Mr. Amory and I missed each other, have missed each other ever since. He has gone somewhere with his mother, and yet must be back in time for the review, but I felt certain that letter ought to get to him at once. Yet you know they do not sail until to-morrow, do you not?" Her head was averted, her slight form was quivering and trembling, her bosom heaving violently in the effort to control the sob that, despite all struggles, burst from her lips. She had been waiting for him all the morning. In another moment, for all answer, she had thrown herself upon the sofa, and was weeping in a wild passion of unrestrained misery. Poor little motherless Kit! and this was my doing. In vain I strove to soothe her. In vain I protested that the letter would soon be in his hands, that no possible harm could come from the delay. Nay, in my eagerness and ludicrous distress I believe I knelt and strove to draw her hands away from her face. Then she hurriedly arose, rushed to the window, and leaning her arms upon the casement, and bowing her pretty head upon her hands, sobbed wildly. Good heavens! what _could_ such an old idiot do? I was powerless, helpless, wretched.