"Statia," said her mother, "you had better tell the story--perhaps you
remember it better than I do."

"It was a raw November night," she began, "and though it did not exactly
storm, the wind moaned and raged through the trees, blowing the fallen
leaver about in gusts, and making a pleasant fire seem doubly cheerful.
The large hickory logs were roaring and blazing in our huge fireplace
and my father, my mother, my two brothers, and myself were gathered
around the fire. I was the eldest, but I was then only twelve years old;
and yet, I remember always to have felt a great deal of care and
responsibility towards the other children I never can forget the night,
for I then experienced my first lesson of self-forgetfulness; and
whenever I speak of it, it seems as of something just passed. As I was
saying, we all sat by the fire, and had just been talking of the
British, who were dreaded and feared by us children as a race of ogres.
The door opened suddenly, and John, one of the hired men, stood before
us, his countenance expressive of some disaster. My father and mother
both rose in apprehension, and demanded the cause of his seeming terror.

"Why sir," he stammered, "perhaps it ain't after all, anything so very
bad--there may not be any real danger; though it ain't exactly what you
would have chosen. I have just come from the post-office, and they say
that a party of British have landed about four miles below, and will
probably come and take supper with you. I do not believe they will do
anything worse, but it is best to be ready."

My mother turned very pale, but she did not faint; she was a true
daughter of America, and always tried to repress all outward signs of
weakness. "I can load the guns," said she, "and attend to the