I spent the morning in wandering about; and in the afternoon I sat in the parlor with Cousin Statia, who was knitting as fast as her needles could fly. I asked her for a book; and after some search, she handed me the "Pilgrim's Progress," in which I soon became deeply interested, while Aunt Henshaw took a nap in her chair. Towards evening the old white horse was harnessed up, and we took a drive; Aunt Henshaw being determined, as she said, to put some color in my pale cheeks. They evidently thought a great deal of this old horse, whom they called Joe; but I mentally compared him with my father's carriage-horses--a comparison not much to his advantage. Cousin Statia drove, but Joe did not seem much disposed to go. Every now and then he came to a stand-still, and I quite wanted to get out and push him along. But they saw nothing uncommon in his behavior, and even congratulated themselves upon his being so careful. Aunt Henshaw said that such dreadful accidents had happened in consequence of horses running away with people, and that Joe's great virtue consisted in his being so perfectly gentle. 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."