"I would be delighted to," answered the young fellow, though in a strangely embarrassed and hesitating way, "but I really cannot promise. You see how it is, don't you?" he continued, looking almost appealingly at me; but I chose not to "see how it was," and only insisted on seconding Harrod's invitation. All the old Adam in me was wild with curiosity to see him with Kitty once more, and his reluctance or hesitancy was something that only served to make me more persistent. Have you never noticed that amiable trait in many a man or woman who, having passed the meridian of life him- or herself, seems bent on directing in the most trivial matters the plans and movements of younger persons? It was no earthly business of mine, and yet I was determined to have Mars come and see Kitty whether he wanted to or not. Harrod, of course, was actuated by no such motives. Early on the following day, on going to my office, the few letters deposited on the desk were naturally the first things to be disposed of. Almost wearily I glanced at the superscriptions, for nobody in New Orleans felt particularly business-like that morning. Some were from correspondents up the railway; others from "down the coast." I simply glanced at their envelopes, and had just about completed the list, when suddenly hand and eye rested upon a dainty little missive, an envelope of creamy white, and addressed to me--to _me_ in the very handwriting that had so attracted my attention and curiosity in Amory's tent at Sandbrook. Here was the same exquisite chirography. I knew I had seen it before. I knew now why it seemed so familiar then. For six years or thereabouts it had not fallen under my gaze; and when it did, six years before, it was only that a proud papa might exhibit to me the beautiful writing of his daughter, then in her last year at school in New York City, the youngest child of a sister long since dead. It was the handwriting of my pretty niece, Bella Grayson,--Bella, whom I had not seen since her girlhood, and all at once it flashed across my perturbed brain that Frank Amory's mysterious correspondent was this self-same Bella. Here was a revelation indeed! For some minutes I was too much confounded to open the letter. Then I proceeded to read it. A very bright, graceful, well-expressed note it proved to be. Uncle George was appropriately reminded that it was more than two years since he had written to papa. Papa did not propose to write again until his letters were answered; but, feeling a trifle uneasy while reading the accounts of the stormy times in New Orleans, and having seen occasional mention of Uncle George in connection with Ku-Klux excitements, she had been commissioned to make inquiries as to Uncle George's health and fortunes, to express the hope that Uncle George would no longer neglect them as he had, and to subscribe herself very affectionately, Uncle George's niece, Bella.