But we, her little favorites, were not afraid of her.  To go into her garden in summer, and eat currants, larger and sweeter than any we found at home,—­to look up at the enormous old damson-tree, when it was white with blossoms, and the rich honey-comb smell was diffused over the whole garden,—­was a pleasant little excursion to us.  She took great care and pains to save the plums from the plundering boys, because it was the only real damson there was anywhere in the neighborhood, and she found a ready sale for them, for preserves.  She seemed to think that the real damsons went out with the real gentry of the olden time; and perhaps they did, as damsons, though, for aught I know, they may figure now in our fruit catalogues as “The Duke of Argyle’s New Seedling Acidulated Drop of Damascus,”—­which would be something like a translation of Damson into the modern terminology.

But more pleasant still was it to go into Aunt Molly’s “best room.”  The walls she had papered herself, with curious stripes and odd pieces, of various shapes and patterns, ornamented with a border of figures of little men and women joining hands, cut from paper of all colors; and they were adorned, besides, with several prints in shining black frames.  There was no carpet on the snow-white, unpainted floor, but various mats and rugs, of all the kinds into which ingenuity has transformed woollen rags, were disposed about it.  The bed was the pride and glory of the room, however; for on it was spread a silk patchwork quilt, made of pieces of the brocade and damask and elegant silks, of which the ladies belonging to the grand old Tory families had their gowns and cardinals, and other paraphernalia, made.  Aunt Molly had been a mantuamaker to the old “quality,” and she could show us a piece of Madam Vassall’s gown on that wonderful and brilliant piece of work, the bed-quilt.  “On that hint” she would speak.

“A-haw-awr!  They were real gentle folks that lived in them days.  A-haw-awr!  I declare, I could e’en-amost kneel down and kiss the very airth they trod on, as they went by my house to church.  Polite, they wor! Yes, they knew what true politeness was; and to my thinking true politeness is next to saving grace.”

Once a year, or so, Aunt Molly would dress up in her best gown, a black silk, trimmed with real black lace, and a real lace cap, relics of the good old days of Toryism and brocade and the real gentry, and go to make an afternoon visit to one of her neighbors.  After the usual salutations, the lady would ask her visitor to take off her bonnet and stay the afternoon, knowing by the “rig” that such was her intention.  But she liked to be urged a little, so she would say, “O, I only came out for a little walk, it was so pleasant, and stopped in to see how little Henry did, since his sickness.  You know I always call him my boy.” (Yes, Aunt Molly, the only boy in the universe that, for you, had any good in him.) After the proper amount of urging, she would lay aside her bonnet and black satin mantle, saying, “Well, I didn’t come here to get my tea, but you are so urgent, I believe I will stay.”