There was something in this speech which grated on my ear as painfully ungrammatical; and I resolved, on the first opportunity, to instruct Holly in the rudiments of grammar.  She remained in the kitchen while Aunt Henshaw, after calling “pussy” in an affectionate manner, shut the cat up in the dining-room; and our guide then led the way to the kittens.  The garret stairs turned off in two directions; one led to about four or five steps, beneath which was a hollow place extending some distance back, where Holly had often seen the old cat go in and out in a private manner.

“Now,” said she, “you stay here, and I’ll jest git the rake and rake the kittens out for Miss Amy, here.”

“But I am afraid you will hurt them,” said Aunt Henshaw.

“It ain’t very likely,” replied Holly confidently, “that they’re a-going to be so shaller as to git hurt.  They’ll squirm over the points of the rake, and take care of themselves.”

The rake was brought; and five little sprawling kittens, with their eyes scarcely open, were soon crawling at my feet.  “Oh, you dear little angels!” I exclaimed in ecstasy.

“Rather black-looking angels,” said Aunt Henshaw with a smile.

I took them up, one after another, and was quite at a loss which to admire most.  There were three black ones, one grey, and one white one spotted.  I rather thought I preferred the white and grey, while Holly claimed the three black ones.  We took them all to the kitchen and placed a saucer of milk before them, while Holly let out the cat, that she might see how well we were treating them.  She looked around in surprise at first; but then deliberately taking them one by one, she carried them all off in her mouth, and we saw nothing more of them for some time.

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.