No one could ever call it a correspondence, for no one ever saw Miss Bella writing, or heard of her mailing letters to West Point or anywhere else. Between her and her devoted papa the closest sympathy and alliance existed. He seemed to take a jovial delight in Bella's fascinations. She ruled him with a winning and imperious sway that was delicious to see, and Uncle George speedily fell into the same groove, with this difference: she may have told her father who her correspondents were; she never did tell Uncle George. What was more, Uncle George never could find out. Despite several efforts to win the young lady's confidence in his somewhat bulky and blundering way, Uncle George had had to give it up. She was impenetrable as a sphinx. And now, six years afterwards, here she reappeared in his life; and, if Uncle George was not very much mistaken, Miss Bella was the correspondent whose letter had caused Frank Amory so much excitement and emotion that last day in camp at Sandbrook. It was her letter he was so eagerly awaiting now. And all this time---- Well. To the neglect of other letters I sat at the desk pondering over this maidenly missive; then with an effort refolded and was about to close it, when my eyes were attracted by some lines on the outer page. Who was it who first said that the gist of a woman's letter would always be found in the postscript? There, on page four of the tiny note-sheet, were the words: "P. S.--So you have met Mr. Amory of the cavalry, and you had quite an exciting adventure, too. Should you see him again pray remember me to him, though it is quite possible he has forgotten me. We were good friends during his 'first class camp.'" Oh, Bella Grayson! "Pray remember me to him," indeed! "Quite possible he has forgotten me." Upon my word, young lady, this is too much even for a long-suffering uncle. Asking me to remember her to a young fellow with whom she was actually in correspondence at the time! For a moment I was fairly indignant; but something of the witchery of Bella's own caressing voice and manner seemed to steal from the folds of the tiny note. A dozen things that had been told me of her from time to time came floating back to my brain, and--I couldn't help it--I began to laugh.