The children took up their wandering and soon came to an old stately mansion with an avenue of majestic trees. This, we were told, was the Dench House, home of a Tory family of pre-revolutionary days and now deserted with all its furnitures and its mysteries until it could be decided properly to whom, under the new order, it really belonged. In this beautiful place they found no giant waiting to execute fell purpose upon them, so they built a fire, gathered berries, and slept, until a very human and kind-hearted giant came along in the form of _Sam Lawson_ himself, who bore them to Oldtown, where the home and the loving hearts they had had faith would appear, were awaiting them. So _Tina_ and _Harry_ came to the home of _Horace Henderson_, the writer, as Mrs. Stowe portrays it, of these annals. _Horace_ and _Harry_ became the friends of a lifetime. _Tina_ was passed into the care of _Miss Mehitable Rossiter_, a plain-faced and true-hearted old maid. When _Tina_ stood at her knee and looked up into her homely face, _Miss Mehitable_ said: “‘Well, how do you like me?’” _Tina_ considered attentively, looking long into the honest, open eyes. “‘I do like you,’ she said, putting out her hands; ‘I think you are good.’” _Miss Mehitable_ said that it was well that she did, for otherwise, as she was a fairy, she might turn her into a mouse or a kitten. “‘I like you, and I will be your kitten,’” said _Tina_. That night _Tina_ slept in a big four-poster bed with hangings of India linen, on which Oriental pagodas and peacocks and mandarins mingled together like the phantasms of a dream. In this pretty little bit of description we have a memory of Mrs. Stowe’s own childhood when she visited the old Foote homestead at Nut Plains, and went to sleep behind the famous bed-hangings that her Uncle Samuel Foote had brought home, and wondered why the mandarins on the printed India linen did not ring the little bells in the pagodas and why the birds did not pick off the golden fruits and eat them. Thus the children were safely landed on the shores of “quality,” where they belonged. They became a part of that best of New England connections, the Rossiter family. They came to know _Parson Lothrop_, his wig and cocked hat and, above all, his old shay. They paid reverence to his wife also, the great lady, and to her lady’s maid, who had “grown up and dried in all the most sacred and sanctified essences of genteel propriety.” Everywhere _Tina_ went she did more good than harm. Even to _Lady Lothrop’s_ lonely grandeur she was a blessing. _Tina_ had been told that in the presence of that great personage she must not talk. So the active child sat still as long as she could keep the dismal silence and then burst forth in several long, loud sighs. “‘What’s the matter, little dear?’ said _Lady Lothrop_. “‘O dear!’ said _Tina_, ‘I was just wishing that I could go to church.’ “‘Well, you are going to-morrow, dear.’ “‘I just wish I could go now and say one prayer.’