CHAPTER XII.

Two or three weeks passed on very pleasantly, and I began to think it time to write a letter home.  I had made but little progress in the art, and letter-writing always appeared to me a great undertaking; but Aunt Henshaw, having one afternoon provided me with pen, ink, and paper, and elevated me nicely with the large Bible and my “Pilgrim’s Progress,” I sat biting the end of my quill, and pondering over some form of commencement.  I had already written “dear mother” at the top; at length I added after considerable reflection: 

“I am well, and hope that you are the same.  It is very pleasant here.  No more at present from

Your affectionate Daughter,

AMY.”

Aunt Henshaw pronounced this “very well—­what was of it;” and Cousin Statia smiled, though I could not well why; but her smiles were so few and far between that they always set me a wondering.  The letter was sealed, however, and enclosed in a larger one of Aunt Henshaw’s, who probably gave a more detailed account of matters and things than I had given.

In the meantime, I was fast regaining the blooming, hoyden appearance most natural to me; and Aunt Henshaw continued to write glowing accounts of my improvement.  In due time my scrawl was answered by a most affectionate letter from mamma, to which was added a postscript by my father; and I began to rise wonderfully in my own estimation, in consequence of having letters addressed entirely to myself.  I even undertook to correct Sylvia for speaking ungrammatically, which made her very angry; and she took occasion to observe, that she had not lived so long in the world to be taught grammar by young ladies who fell into pig-pens.  One great source of amusement at Henshaw’s, was to watch Sylvia making cheeses.  Sometimes she allowed me to make small ones, which I pressed with geranium leaves; but one day, being a little out of humor, she refused to let me have the rennet unless I could find it.—­I searched through the kitchen and everywhere for it, and spent the whole morning in looking, till I almost despaired of finding it; but at length I pushed aside a tub, and there it was.  This was one of Sylvia’s peculiarities.  She was an excellent servant, and having been a long time in the family, Aunt Henshaw allowed her to have pretty much her own way.  Sylvia was not wanting in sense, and often, when the old lady thought she had obtained the better of the dispute, she was, in reality, yielding to the sagacity of the colored woman.  Holly was a sort of satellite, and evidently quite in awe of her superior; but Sylvia regarded her as the very quintescence of laziness, and always delighted to set her at some interminable job.  It was much more to Holly’s taste to look after the cows and pigs, and wander about the premises, than to wash dishes and peel potatoes; but she dared not resist the cook’s authority.