Supposing that it would please me, she got them out of the case and laid them beside me.  They were very pretty, to be sure, but oh! how much suffering those ear-rings caused me!  My poor ears were very sore for a long time, and I would sit for hours leaning my head on a pillow, in hopes of easing the pain.  And yet, when they were at last well, and the ear-rings really in, I almost forgot what I had suffered in the delight I experienced at my supposed transformation.  They were the admiration of the kitchen; and even Aunt Henshaw and Cousin Statia allowed that ear-rings were a great improvement; and I began to think that on my return home they would even throw Ellen Tracy’s curls into the shade.

The summer was passing away—­harvest had come and gone; and while the others were engaged during this busy season, I was to be seen perched on every load of hay, from which I had of course two or three tumbles, but always on some pile beneath.  The kittens had grown large and awkward, and consequently lost my favor; while the cat no longer put herself to the trouble of hiding them, so that I could now have them whenever I chose—­coming like most other privileges when no longer desired.  The evenings were getting chilly, so that a fire was very acceptable; and I loved to sit by the bright flame before the candles were brought in, and listen to Aunt Henshaw’s stories.

“Now,” said I one evening when we had all comfortably arranged ourselves to spend the twilight in doing nothing, “do tell me a very interesting story, Aunt Henshaw—­for you know that I am going home soon, and perhaps it is the last that I shall hear.”

“Well,” said she with a smile, “if it is to be so very interesting, I must think very hard first.”

Cousin Statia had been looking towards the door, when she suddenly inquired:  “Did you ever tell her about the bullet hole?”

“Why, no,” replied the old lady, “I do not believe I ever did.  Have you noticed the round hole in the front door, Amy?”

I replied in the negative; and taking me into the hall, she led the way to the front door which opened in two parts, and in the upper half I distinctly perceived a bullet hole which had been made by the British; and it was the story attached to this very hole which she was about to tell me.

“Well, one night,” said she, “a long while ago, I sat by the fire with the baby in my arms, while the other children were playing around.  The two women servants were in the kitchen, and Mr. Henshaw had taken the men several miles off, on some business relating to the farm.  It was just about this time, before the candles were lit; and one of the women came in to tell me that five British soldiers were approaching the house.

“Fasten all the doors then,” said I, “and let no one enter unless I give you permission.”

The doors were well fastened up, and before long I heard them knocking with the ends of their muskets.  I let them knock for some time; but at length I raised an upper window, and asked them what they wanted.