Aunt Elisabeth lived near the landing in a wide, comfortable stone house, shaded by such enormous and aged willows as I think grow nowhere else. From my window I could see the green at the end of the street, with one gigantic buttonwood growing in the centre, the river, or creek as we always called it, and the schooners and steamers on their way up to Bridgeton, the metropolis of West Jersey; and a wonderful, quaint, pretty, hospitable little metropolis it is. I have not seen that prospect for many a long year, but I have only to shut my eyes to call it all up before me as plain as day. This particular day we were engaged at a small tea-party at Annabella Floyd's, over across the river. We were very much bent upon going, but during the morning such a storm of wind and rain had set in that even Violet confessed the expedition must be abandoned. Under these disastrous circumstances, it may be believed that we hailed with delight the prospect of a story from grandma. Grandma Howell was past ninety. She was somewhat infirm, but her mind was as bright and her feelings as keen as they had ever been. She had not the absolute patience and self-restraint of Aunt Elisabeth, her granddaughter, and would sometimes wax warm in a debate, while her sarcasm was not a weapon to be lightly encountered: but nevertheless, everybody loved and respected Grandma Howell. "Well, get your work and sit down, and I'll tell you the story!" said grandma, who never could bear to see any one idle. "It all happened in the year 1774. Think of that, children! Those willows over there were quite small trees, I remember. Ah well, it seems a long time to wait. "It was in the beginning of that same year that Aunt Betsy broke up housekeeping and went to live with her nephew, Abiram Haskins, taking me with her. Aunt Betsy was a widow, and Abiram's mother had died not long before; and as he was a bachelor and had a large farm, he needed some woman about the house. So he asked Aunt Betsy to come and take charge, and she consented. His house stood near the end of the street, a little back, and not very far from the creek. The house was burned down afterward, but if you look sharp you may see traces of the cellar in Richard Shepherd's field to this day. It was a good house, with roomy cellars and chambers, and large rooms down-stairs; and when Aunt Betsy's furniture was put in, it looked very well, only there was always a stiff, scrimped look and a musty, woolly smell about it. Abiram was a Friend, as his father had been before him, but he was n't very zealous in religious matters, and had the name of sitting very close to the world and its goods. However, his character was good at that time, though I don't think anybody liked him but Aunt Betsy.