Aunt Henshaw had boxes of old letters which she estimated among her
greatest valuables; and sometimes, when the sun was shining brightly
without, and the soft air of summer waving the trees gently to and fro,
the old lady would invite me in a mysterious manner to her room, and
drawing forth an almost endless package, open letter after letter, and
read to me the correspondence of people whom I cared nothing about. I
tried very hard to suppress all signs of yawning, for I wanted to be out
at play; but I must have been ungrateful not to exercise a little
patience with one so kind and affectionate, and she, dear old soul!
evidently considered it the greatest treat she could offer me. I became
in this manner acquainted with the whole history of her courtship; and
charmed with so quiet a listener, she would read to me till I fairly
fell asleep. But her thoughts being entirely occupied with the past, and
her eyes in endeavoring to decipher the faded hand-writing, this
inattention passed unobserved; and she pursued her reading until called
off by her daily duties.

Dear old lady! how often have I watched her when she was asleep, as with
the neat white frill of her cap partially shading her face, she sat in
the large chair with her hands folded together, and her spectacles lying
on the book in her lap. She looked so pure and calm that I sometimes
felt afraid that she might be dead, like old people I had heard of who
died quietly in their sleep; but I could not bear the idea, and a
feeling of inexpressible relief would come over me when I beheld the
lids slowly rise again from the mild eyes that were ever bent lovingly
upon me.

She bad a box piled with rolls of manuscript containing poetry, which
she told me she had taken great pleasure in composing. "Saturday