One Sunday morning I was left at home, in consequence of not being well, with strict injunctions not to get into mischief; while Aunt Henshaw, Cousin Statia, and Sylvia went to church—­the superintendence of the house being placed in Holly’s charge.  I settled myself by the parlor window with my “Pilgrim’s Progress” and pursued the thread of Christian’s adventures; while I glanced from time to time on the prospect without, while the hum of the locusts and lowing of the cows came borne upon my ear like pleasant sounds.  I laid down my book to read a chapter in the Bible, and was enjoying a very pleasant frame of mind when the tempter came, in the shape of Holly, and beckoned me into the kitchen.

Nothing loath, I followed eagerly; and the colored girl proposed that we should have a small baking.  The fire had been carefully put out in the kitchen, and we concluded to make one on bricks in the yard.  After puffing and blowing with considerable energy, Holly kindled a flame; and we then concluded to mix up some gingerbread, and bake it in clam-shells As I heard the monotonous hum of the bees, and remarked the stillness around, while everything seemed to speak of the Sabbath, my conscience reproached me; and I was several times on the point of turning back into the parlor, but I lacked sufficient courage to resist Holly’s glowing descriptions of our gingerbread that was to be.  The store-room closet was pretty dark, and Holly was obliged to go by guess-work in selecting her materials, but all seemed right; and in triumph we placed several clam-shells of dough on the fire to bake.  We worked very hard to keep up the flames, but the baking progressed slowly; and we dreaded to hear the sound of wheels that announced the return of the church-goers.  It was done at last, and we sat down to enjoy the feast.  I broke off a piece, and put it in my mouth, expecting to find a delicious morsel, but it had a very queer taste; and I saw that Holly was surveying it with an appearance of the greatest curiosity.

“What is the matter?” said I, “What have you done to it, Holly?”

“Well, I guess I’ve put in lime instead of flour,” she replied.

It was but too true; and just then we heard the sound of wheels, and a vigorous lifting of the great brass knocker.  Holly hurriedly cleared away all signs of our employment, and then opened the door; while I returned to my books, convinced that the poorest time to make gingerbread was on Sunday, and in the dark.  But Aunt Henshaw discovered our proceedings through Sylvia, who complained that some one had dropped molasses in the lime; which she soon traced to Holly, and I was never left home again on Sunday, alone.

“Once,” said Aunt Henshaw, when I had, as usual, solicited a story, “there was a report that the British were about to sack New London.  The city was a scene of hurry and confusion.  Carriages were driving hither and thither, laden with silver plate and other valuables, which the owners were glad to place in the hands of any respectable-looking stranger they met, for safe-keeping.  Several pieces were placed in our carriage; among others a handsome silver tankard and half-a-dozen goblets, which were never reclaimed.  I have always kept them to this day.”