Uncle Isham now took his position by the side of his oxen, and started them; and slowly creaking, Aunt Patsy’s vehicle moved off, followed by the two boys on mules, three colored women and two girls on foot, and by two little black urchins who were sometimes on foot, but invariably on the tail of the cart when they could manage to evade the backward turn of Uncle Isham’s eye.

“Ef I should go to glory on de road, Uncle Isham,” said Aunt Patsy, as the right wheel of the cart emerged from a rather awkward rut, “I don’ want no fuss made ‘bout me.  You kin jes’ bury me in de clothes.  I got on, ‘cep’n de pararsol, ob course, which is Liza’s.  Jes’ wrop de quilt all roun’ me, an’ hab a extry size coffin.  You needn’t do nuffin’ more’n dat.”

“Oh, you’s not gwine to glory dis time, Aun’ Patsy,” replied Uncle Isham, who did not want to encourage the idea of the old woman’s departure from life while in his ox cart.  But after this remark of the old woman he was extraordinarily careful in regard to jolts and bumps.

When the procession reached the domain of Miss Harriet Corvey, there was gathered inside the yard quite a number of the usual attendants on mail days, awaiting the arrival of Wesley Green with his waddling horse and leather bag.  But all interest in the coming of the mail was lost in the surprise and admiration excited by the astounding apparition of old Aunt Patsy in the ox cart, attended by her retinue.  As the oxen, skilfully guided by Uncle Isham’s long prod, turned into the yard, everybody came forward to find out the reason of this unlooked-for occurrence.  Even old Madison Chalkley, his stout legs swaddled in home-made overalls, dismounted from his horse, and Colonel Iston raised his tall form from the porch step where he had been sitting, and approached the cart.

“Upon my word,” said a young fellow, with high boots, slouched hat, and a riding whip, “if here ain’t old Aunt Patsy come after a letter!  Where do you expect a letter from, Aunt Patsy?”

The old woman fixed her spectacles on him for an instant, and then said in a clear voice which could be heard by all the little crowd:  “’Tain’t from nobody dat I owes any money to, nohow, Mahs’ Bill Trimble.”

A general laugh followed this rejoinder, and Uncle Isham grinned with gratified pride in the enduring powers of his charge.  The old woman now put down her parasol, and made as if she would descend from the cart.

“You needn’t git out, Aun’ Patsy,” said several negro boys at once.  “We’ll fotch your letters to you.”

“Git ’long wid you!” said the old woman angrily.  “I didn’t come here fur no letters.  Ef I wanted letters I’d sen’ ’Liza fur ’em.  Git out de way.”