Andrew's letter and Jean's letter were in Mrs. Morrison's lap. She had
read them both, and sat looking at them with a varying sort of smile,
now motherly and now unmotherly.

"You belong with me," Andrew wrote. "It is not right that Jean's
husband should support my mother. I can do it easily now. You shall
have a good room and every comfort. The old house will let for enough
to give you quite a little income of your own, or it can be sold and I
will invest the money where you'll get a deal more out of it. It is not
right that you should live alone there. Sally is old and liable to
accident. I am anxious about you. Come on for Thanksgiving--and come
to stay. Here is the money to come with. You know I want you. Annie
joins me in sending love. ANDREW."

Mrs. Morrison read it all through again, and laid it down with her
quiet, twinkling smile. Then she read Jean's.

"Now, mother, you've got to come to us for Thanksgiving this year. Just
think! You haven't seen baby since he was three months old! And have
never seen the twins. You won't know him--he's such a splendid big boy
now. Joe says for you to come, of course. And, mother, why won't you
come and live with us? Joe wants you, too. There's the little room
upstairs; it's not very big, but we can put in a Franklin stove for you
and make you pretty comfortable. Joe says he should think you ought to
sell that white elephant of a place. He says he could put the money
into his store and pay you good interest. I wish you would, mother.
We'd just love to have you here. You'd be such a comfort to me, and
such a help with the babies. And Joe just loves you. Do come now, and