"Have we time to send a despatch to New Orleans?" asked Harrod, eagerly.
"Hardly," said the major, with a quiet smile. "But won't this do?" and he placed in Harrod's hand one of the papers. The message read:
"Telegram received. Assure Vinton's friends that fever is less. He receives best care. We are hopeful now.
"Reynolds, A.A.G."
"Thank God!" I uttered.
Summers, with tears starting to his eyes, grasped the soldier's hand.
"You are a very thoughtful man, sir."
"All aboard!" yelled the conductor. "Get those lamps lit now."
Somehow I was glad it was dusk in the car as we sprang aboard. Harrod, with quick, eager step, went directly to her. Something told her he had news, and she rose, throwing back her veil, and bent eagerly forward. He placed the paper in her hand, and, clutching it, she seemed to devour the contents. Kitty had turned quickly to look. Conversation somehow had ceased. Then we saw her glance one instant up in his face. Then his strong arms were round her, for, burying her face in his breast, she had burst into a passion of almost hysterical weeping. Then we all turned away and shook hands. The whole car knew Vinton was better. One soldier up in front wanted to give three cheers, but was promptly suppressed. Kitty's own eyes were overflowing as she received the congratulations of the lately banquetted, and with a great load off our hearts we sped onward through the darkness.
Two sweet pictures remain in my memory of that strange night. First was that of Miss Summers and Major Williams. At her request Harrod brought him to her, that she might thank him for the thoughtfulness, the delicate attention he had shown. Her face was exquisite in the revival of hope, in the intensity of gratitude.
The second was about 11 P.M. We had had to make some stops. Our run was now less impeded. It had grown chilly and raw. Coming in from the front, whither I had gone to smoke with the conductor, I found the inmates of the rear of our car apparently buried in slumber, except one figure. Mr. Turpin, with his blouse collar turned up and his hands in his pockets, was sitting bolt upright. Two seats behind him, her fair hair curling about her rounded cheek, sleeping like a babe after all the fatigues and excitements of the day, but from neck to foot completely enveloped in a cloak of army blue, was Kitty Carrington, our rampant little rebel Kit.