stand-still, and I quite wanted to get out and push him along. But they
saw nothing uncommon in his behavior, and even congratulated themselves
upon his being so careful. Aunt Henshaw said that such dreadful
accidents had happened in consequence of horses running away with
people, and that Joe's great virtue consisted in his being so perfectly
gentle.

We did not drive very far, and on our return found that Sylvia had tea
all ready and waiting for us. The old colored woman was quite tasty in
her ideas, and had garnished an immense dish of strawberries with
flowers and leaves, through which the red fruit gleamed most temptingly
forth. After tea, when Cousin Statia had taken up her knitting, and Aunt
Henshaw was seated in her usual chair, I placed a low stool beside her
for myself, and begged for one of her usual stories. She was a very
entertaining old lady, with a great deal of natural wit, and abundant
reminiscences of the times in which she had lived. Nothing delighted us
more than to hear her stories of the Revolution, in many of which she
figured as principal actor; and I now expected a rich treat.

"Well, I do not know," replied Aunt Henshaw in answer to my question, "I
think I must have told you all."

This remark, I knew from experience, was the prelude to something even
more interesting than usual, and I waited patiently for her to begin.

"Did I ever tell you," she continued, "of the time that Statia went to
her Uncle Ben's at night, with no one except her two little brothers?"

I had never heard the narrative, and eagerly settled myself in the
position of a listener.