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.

“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 supper—­but what will become of the children?  These soldiers may perhaps be intoxicated, and might set fire to the house.”