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 pray 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 stay with us. Here is the money for the trip.—

Your affectionate daughter,

JFANNIE.”

Mrs. Morrison laid this beside the other, folded both, and placed them in their respective envelopes, then in their several well-

filled pigeon-holes in her big, old-fashioned desk. She turned and paced slowly up and down the long parlor, a tall woman, commanding of aspect, yet of a winningly attractive manner, erect and light-footed, still imposingly handsome.

It was now November, the last lingering boarder was long since gone, and a quiet winter lay before her. She was alone, but for Sally; and she smiled at Andrew’s cautious expression, “liable to accident.” He could not say “feeble” or “ailing,”

Sally being a colored lady of changeless aspect and incessant activity.

Mrs. Morrison was alone, and while living in the Welcome House she was never unhappy. Her father had built it, she was born there, she grew up playing on the broad green lawns in front, and in the acre of garden behind. It was the finest house in the village, and she then thought it the finest in the world.

Even after living with her father at Washington and

abroad, after visiting hall, castle and palace, she still found the Welcome House beautiful and impressive.

If she kept on taking boarders she could live the year through, and pay interest, but not principal, on her little mortgage. This had been the one possible and necessary thing while the children were there, though it was a business she hated.

But her youthful experience in diplomatic circles, and the years of practical management in

church affairs, enabled her to bear it with patience and success. The boarders often confided to one another, as they chatted and tatted on the long piazza, that Mrs. Morrison was “certainly very refined.”

Now Sally whisked in cheerfully, announcing supper, and Mrs. Morrison went out to her great silver tea-tray at the lit end of the long, dark mahogany table, with as much dignity as if twenty titled guests were before her.

Afterward Mr. Butts called. He came early in the evening, with his usual air of determination and a somewhat unusual spruceness. Mr. Peter Butts was a florid, blonde person, a little stout, a little pompous, sturdy and immovable in the attitude of a self-made man. He had been a poor boy when she was a rich girl; and it gratified him much to realize

—and to call upon her to realize—that their positions had changed. He meant no unkindness, his pride was

honest and unveiled. Tact he had none.

She had refused Mr. Butts, almost with laughter, when he proposed to her in her gay girlhood. She had refused him, more gently, when he proposed to her in her early widowhood. He had always been her friend, and her husband’s friend, a solid member of the church, and had taken the small mortgage on the house. She refused to allow him at first, but he was convincingly frank about it.

“This has nothing to do with my wanting you, Delia Morrison,” he said. “I’ve always wanted you—and I’ve always wanted this house, too. You won’t sell, but you’ve got to mortgage. By and by you can’t pay up, and I’ll get it—see? Then maybe you’ll take me—to keep the house. Don’t be a fool, Delia. It’s a perfectly good investment.”

She had taken the loan. She had paid the interest. She would pay the interest if she had to take boarders all her life. And she would not,

at any price, marry Peter Butts.

He broached the subject again that evening, cheerful and undismayed. “You might as well come to it, Delia,” he said. “Then we could live right here just the same. You aren’t so young as you were, to be sure; I’m not, either. But you are as good a housekeeper as ever

—better—you’ ve had more experience.”

“You are extremely kind, Mr. Butts,” said the lady, “but I do not wish to marry

you.”

“I know you don’t,” he said. “You’ve made that clear. You don’t, but I do. You’ve had your way and married the minister. He was a good man, but he’s dead. Now you might as well marry me.”

“I do not wish to marry again, Mr. Butts; neither you nor anyone.”

“Very proper, very proper, Delia,” he replied. “It wouldn’t look well if you did—at any rate, if you showed it. But why

shouldn’t you? The children are gone now—you can’t hold them up against me any more.”

“Yes, the children are both settled now, and doing nicely,” she admitted.

“You don’t want to go and live with them—either one of them—do you?” he asked.

“I should prefer to stay here,” she answered.

“Exactly! And you can’t! You’d rather live here and be a grandee—but you can’t do it. Keepin’ house for

boarders isn’t any better than keepin’ house for me, as I see. You’d much better marry me.”

“I should prefer to keep the house without you, Mr. Butts.”

“I know you would. But you can’t, I tell you. I’d like to know what a woman of your age can do with a house like this—and no money? You can’t live eternally on hens’ eggs and garden truck. That won’t pay the mortgage.”

Mrs. Morrison looked at

him with her cordial smile, calm and noncommittal. “Perhaps I can manage it,” she said.

“That mortgage falls due two years from Thanksgiving, you know.”

“Yes—I have not forgotten.”

“Well, then, you might just as well marry me now, and save two years of interest. It’ll be my house, either way—but you’ll be keepin’ it just the same.”

“It is very kind of you, Mr. Butts. I must decline the

offer none the less. I can pay the interest, I am sure. And perhaps—in two years’ time

—I can pay the principal. It’s not a large sum.”

“That depends on how you look at it,” said he. “Two thousand dollars is considerable money for a single woman to raise in two years—and interest.”

He went away, as cheerful and determined as ever; and Mrs. Morrison saw him go with a keen light in her fine eyes, a more definite line to that steady, pleasant smile.

Then she went to spend Thanksgiving with Andrew. He was glad to see her. Annie was glad to see her. They proudly installed her in “her room,” and said she must call it “home” now.

This affectionately offered home was twelve by fifteen, and eight feet high. It had two windows, one looking at some pale gray clapboards within reach of a broom, the other giving a view of several small fenced yards occupied by cats, clothes and children. There was an ailanthus tree under

the window, a lady ailanthus tree. Annie told her how profusely it bloomed. Mrs. Morrison particularly disliked the smell of ailanthus flowers. “It doesn’t bloom in November,” said she to herself. “I can be thankful for that!”

Andrew’s church was very like the church of his father, and Mrs. Andrew was doing her best to fill the position of minister’s wife— doing it well, too—there was no vacancy for a minister’s mother.

Besides, the work she had done so cheerfully to help her husband was not what she most cared for, after all. She liked the people, she liked to manage, but she was not strong on doctrine. Even her husband had never known how far her views differed from his. Mrs. Morrison had never mentioned what they were.

Andrew’s people were very polite to her. She was invited out with them, waited upon and watched over and set down among the old ladies and gentlemen

—she had never realized so keenly that she was no longer young. Here nothing recalled her youth, every careful provision anticipated age. Annie brought her a hot-water bag at night, tucking it in at the foot of the bed with affectionate care. Mrs. Morrison thanked her, and subsequently took it out—airing the bed a little before she got into it. The house seemed very hot to her, after the big, windy halls at home.

The little dining-room, the little round table with the

little round fern-dish in the middle, the little turkey and the little carving-set-game- set she would have called it

—all made her feel as if she was looking through the wrong end of an opera-glass.

In Annie’s precise efficiency she saw no room for her assistance; no room in the church, no room in the small, busy town, prosperous and progressive, and no room in the house. “Not enough to turn round in!” she said to herself. Annie, who had grown up in a city flat, thought their little

parsonage palatial. Mrs. Morrison grew up in the Welcome House.

She stayed a week, pleasant and polite, conversational, interested in all that went on.

“I think your mother is just lovely,” said Annie to Andrew.

“Charming woman, your mother,” said the leading church member.

“What a delightful old lady your mother is!” said the pretty soprano.

And Andrew was deeply hurt and disappointed when she announced her determination to stay on for the present in her old home. “Dear boy,” she said, “you mustn’t take it to heart. I love to be with you, of course, but I love my home, and want to keep it as long as I can. It is a great pleasure to see you and Annie so well settled, and so happy together. I am most truly thankful for you.”

“My home is open to you whenever you wish to come, mother,” said Andrew. But

he was a little angry.

Mrs. Morrison came home as eager as a girl, and opened her own door with her own key, in spite of Sally’s haste.

Two years were before her in which she must find some way to keep herself and Sally, and to pay two thousand dollars and the interest to Peter Butts. She considered her assets. Here was the house—the white elephant. It was big—very big. It was profusely furnished. Her father had

entertained lavishly like the Southern-born, hospitable gentleman he was; and the bedrooms ran in suites— somewhat deteriorated by the use of boarders, but still numerous and habitable. Boarders—she abhorred them. They were people from afar, strangers and interlopers. She went over the place from garret to cellar, from front gate to backyard fence.

The garden had great possibilities. She was fond of gardening, and understood it well. She

measured and estimated.

“This garden,” she finally decided, “with the hens, will feed us two women and sell enough to pay Sally. If we make plenty of jelly, it may cover the coal bill, too. As to clothes—I don’t need any. They last admirably. I can manage. I can live—but two thousand dollars—and interest!”

In the great attic was more furniture, discarded sets put there when her extravagant young mother had ordered new ones. And chairs—

uncounted chairs. Senator Welcome used to invite numbers to meet his political friends—and they had delivered glowing orations in the wide, double parlors, the impassioned speakers standing on a temporary dais, now in the cellar; and the enthusiastic listeners disposed more or less comfortably on these serried rows of “folding chairs,” which folded sometimes, and let down the visitor in scarlet confusion to the floor.

She sighed as she

remembered those vivid days and glittering nights. She used to steal downstairs in her little pink wrapper and listen to the eloquence. It delighted her young soul to see her father rising on his toes, coming down sharply on his heels, hammering one hand upon the other; and then to hear the fusillade of applause.

Here were the chairs, often borrowed for weddings, funerals, and church affairs, somewhat worn and depleted, but still numerous. She mused upon

them. Chairs—hundreds of chairs. They would sell for very little.

She went through her linen room. A splendid stock in the old days; always carefully washed by Sally; surviving even the boarders. Plenty of bedding, plenty of towels, plenty of napkins and tablecloths. “It would make a good hotel—but I can’t have it so—I can’t! Besides, there’s no need of another hotel here. The poor little Haskins House is never full.”

The stock in the china closet was more damaged than some other things, naturally; but she inventoried it with care. The countless cups of crowded church receptions were especially prominent. Later additions these, not very costly cups, but numerous, appallingly.

When she had her long list of assets all in order, she sat and studied it with a clear and daring mind. Hotel

—boarding-house—she could think of nothing else. School! A girls’ school! A

boarding school! There was money to be made at that, and fine work done. It was a brilliant thought at first, and she gave several hours, and much paper and ink, to its full consideration. But she would need some capital for advertising ; she must engage teachers—adding to her definite obligation; and to establish it, well, it would require time.

Mr. Butts, obstinate, pertinacious, oppressively affectionate, would give her no time. He meant to force her to marry him for her

own good—and his. She shrugged her fine shoulders with a little shiver. Marry Peter Butts! Never! Mrs. Morrison still loved her husband. Some day she meant to see him again— God willing—and she did not wish to have to tell him that at fifty she had been driven into marrying Peter Butts.

Better live with Andrew. Yet when she thought of living with Andrew, she shivered again. Pushing back her sheets of figures and lists of personal

property, she rose to her full graceful height and began to walk the floor. There was plenty of floor to walk. She considered, with a set deep thoughtfulness, the town and the townspeople, the surrounding country, the hundreds upon hundreds of women whom she knew— and liked, and who liked her.

It used to be said of Senator Welcome that he had no enemies; and some people, strangers,

maliciously disposed, thought it no credit to his character. His daughter had

no enemies, but no one had ever blamed her for her unlimited friendliness. In her father’s wholesale entertainments the whole town knew and admired his daughter; in her husband’s popular church she had come to know the women of the countryside about them. Her mind strayed off to these women, farmers’ wives, comfortably off in a plain way, but starving for companionship, for occasional stimulus and pleasure. It was one of her joys in her husband’s time to

bring together these women

—to teach and entertain them.

Suddenly she stopped short in the middle of the great high-ceiled room, and drew her head up proudly like a victorious queen. One wide, triumphant, sweeping glance she cast at the well- loved walls—and went back to her desk, working swiftly, excitedly, well into the hours of the night.

Presently the little town began to buzz, and the murmur ran far out into the surrounding country. Sunbonnets wagged over fences; butcher carts and pedlar’s wagon carried the news farther; and ladies visiting found one topic in a thousand houses.

Mrs. Morrison was going to entertain. Mrs. Morrison had invited the whole feminine population, it would appear, to meet Mrs. Isabelle Carter Blake, of Chicago. Even Haddleton had heard of Mrs. Isabelle

Carter Blake. And even Haddleton had nothing but admiration for her.

She was known the world over for her splendid work for children for the school children and the working children of the country. Yet she was known also to have lovingly and wisely reared six children of her own – and made her husband happy in his home. On top of that she had lately written a novel, a popular novel, of which everyone was taleing and on top of that she was an intimate friend of a certain

conspicuous Countess – an Italian.

It was even rumored, by some who knew Mrs. Morrison better than others – or thought they did – that the Countess was coming. tool No one had known before that Delia Welcome was a school-mate of Isabelle Carter, and a lifelong friend; and that was ground for talk in itself.

The day arrived, and the guests arrived. They came in hundreds upon hundreds, and found ample room in the

great white house.

The highest dream of the guests was realized—the Countess had come, too. With excited joy they met her, receiving impressions that would last them for all their lives, for those large widening waves of reminiscence which delight us the more as years pass. It was an incredible glory— Mrs. Isabelle Carter Blake, and a Countess!

Some were moved to note that Mrs. Morrison looked the easy peer of these

eminent ladies, and treated the foreign nobility precisely as she did her other friends.

She spoke, her clear quiet voice reaching across the murmuring din, and silencing it.

“Shall we go into the east room? If you will all take chairs in the east room, Mrs. Blake is going to be so kind as to address us. Also perhaps her friend—”

They crowded in, sitting somewhat timorously on the unfolded chairs.

Then the great Mrs. Blake

made them an address of memorable power and beauty, which received vivid sanction from that imposing presence in Parisian garments on the platform by her side. Mrs. Blake spoke to them of the work she was interested in, and how it was aided everywhere by the women’s clubs. She gave them the number of these clubs, and described with contagious enthusiasm the inspiration of their great meetings. She spoke of the women’s club houses, going up in city after city, where

many associations meet and help one another. She was winning and convincing and most entertaining—an extremely attractive speaker.

Had they a women’s club there? They had not.

Not yet, she suggested, adding that it took no time at all to make one.

They were delighted and impressed with Mrs. Blake’s speech, but its effect was greatly intensified by the address of the Countess.

“I, too, am American,” she told them; “born here,

reared in England, married in Italy.” And she stirred their hearts with a vivid account of the women’s clubs and associations all over Europe, and what they were accomplishing. She was going back soon, she said, the wiser and happier for this visit to her native land, and she should remember particularly this beautiful, quiet town, trusting that if she came to it again it would have joined the great sisterhood of women, “whose hands were touching around the world

for the common good.”

It was a great occasion.

The Countess left next day, but Mrs. Blake remained, and spoke in some of the church meetings, to an ever widening circle of admirers. Her suggestions were practical.

“What you need here is a ‘Rest and Improvement Club,’” she said. “Here are all you women coming in from the country to do your shopping—and no place to go to. No place to lie down if you’re tired, to meet a

friend, to eat your lunch in peace, to do your hair. All you have to do is organize, pay some small regular due, and provide yourselves with what you want.”

There was a volume of questions and suggestions, a little opposition, much random activity.

Who was to do it? Where was there a suitable place? They would have to hire someone to take charge of it. It would only be used once a week. It would cost too much.

Mrs. Blake, still practical, made another suggestion. “Why not combine business with pleasure, and make use of the best place in town, if you can get it? I think Mrs. Morrison could be persuaded to let you use part of her house; it’s quite too big for one woman.”

Then Mrs. Morrison, simple and cordial as ever, greeted with warm enthusiasm by her wide circle of friends.

“I have been thinking this over,” she said. “Mrs. Blake

has been discussing it with me. My house is certainly big enough for all of you, and there am I, with nothing to do but entertain you. Suppose you formed such a club as you speak of—for Rest and Improvement. My parlors are big enough for all manner of meetings; there are bedrooms in plenty for resting. If you form such a club I shall be glad to help with my great, cumbersome house, shall be delighted to see so many friends there so often; and I think I could furnish accommodations

more cheaply than you could manage in any other way.

Then Mrs. Blake gave them facts and figures, showing how much clubhouses cost—and how little this arrangement would cost. “Most women have very little money, I know,” she said, “and they hate to spend it on themselves when they have; but even a little money from each goes a long way when it is put together. I fancy there are none of us so poor we could not squeeze out, say ten cents a week. For a hundred

women that would be ten dollars. Could you feed a hundred tired women for ten dollars, Mrs. Morrison?”

Mrs. Morrison smiled cordially. “Not on chicken pie,” she said. “But I could give them tea and coffee, crackers and cheese for that, I think. And a quiet place to rest, and a reading room, and a place to hold meetings.”

Then Mrs. Blake quite swept them off their feet by her wit and eloquence. She gave them to understand that if a share in the palatial

accommodation of the Welcome House, and as good tea and coffee as old Sally made, with a place to meet, a place to rest, a place to talk, a place to lie down, could be had for ten cents a week each, she advised them to clinch the arrangement at once before Mrs. Morrison’s natural good sense had overcome her enthusiasm.

Before Mrs. Isabelle Carter Blake had left, Haddleton had a large and eager women’s club, whose entire expenses, outside of stationery and postage,

consisted of ten cents a week per capita, paid to Mrs. Morrison. Everybody belonged. It was open at once for charter members, and all pressed forward to claim that privileged place.

They joined by hundreds, and from each member came this tiny sum to Mrs. Morrison each week. It was very little money, taken separately. But it added up with silent speed. Tea and coffee, purchased in bulk, crackers by the barrel, and whole cheeses—these are not expensive luxuries. The

town was full of Mrs. Morrison’s ex-Sunday- school boys, who furnished her with the best they had— at cost. There was a good deal of work, a good deal of care, and room for the whole supply of Mrs. Morrison’s diplomatic talent and experience. Saturdays found the Welcome House as full as it could hold, and Sundays found Mrs. Morrison in bed. But she liked it.

A busy, hopeful year flew by, and then she went to Jean’s for Thanksgiving.

The room Jean gave her was about the same size as her haven in Andrew’s home, but one flight higher up, and with a sloping ceiling. Mrs. Morrison whitened her dark hair upon it, and rubbed her head confusedly. Then she shook it with renewed determination.

The house was full of babies. There was little Joe, able to get about, and into everything. There were the twins, and there was the new baby. There was one servant, over-worked and

cross. There was a small, cheap, totally inadequate nursemaid. There was Jean, happy but tired, full of joy, anxiety and affection, proud of her children, proud of her husband, and delighted to unfold her heart to her mother.

By the hour she babbled of their cares and hopes, while Mrs. Morrison, tall and elegant, in her well-kept old black silk, sat holding the baby or trying to hold the twins. The old silk was pretty well finished by the week’s end. Joseph talked to

her also, telling her how well he was getting on, and how much he needed capital, urging her to come and stay with them; it was such a help to Jeannie; asking questions about the house.

There was no going visiting here. Jeannie could not leave the babies. And few visitors; all the little suburb being full of similarly overburdened mothers. Such as called found Mrs. Morrison charming. What she found them, she did not say. She bade her daughter an

affectionate good-bye when the week was up, smiling at their mutual contentment.

“Good-bye, my dear children,” she said. “I am so glad for all your happiness. I am thankful for both of you.”

But she was more thankful to get home.

Mr. Butts did not have to call for his interest this time, but he called none the less.

“How on earth’d you get it, Delia?” he demanded. “Screwed it out o’ these club-women?”

“Your interest is so moderate, Mr. Butts, that it is easier to meet than you imagine,” was her answer. “Do you know the average interest they charge in Colorado? The women vote there, you know.”

He went away with no more personal information than that; and no nearer approach to the twin goals of his desire than the passing of the year.

“One more year, Delia,” he said; “then you’ll have to give in.”

“One more year!” she said to herself, and took up her chosen task with renewed energy.

The financial basis of the undertaking was very simple, but it would never have worked so well under less skilful management. Five dollars a year these country women could not have faced, but ten cents a week was possible to the poorest. There was no difficulty in collecting, for they brought it themselves; no unpleasantness in receiving, for old Sally stood

at the receipt of custom and presented the covered cash- box when they came for their tea.

On the crowded Saturdays the great urns were set going, the mighty array of cups arranged in easy reach, the ladies filed by, each taking her refection and leaving her dime. Where the effort came was in enlarging the membership and keeping up the attendance; and this effort was precisely in the line of Mrs. Morrison’s splendid talents.

Serene, cheerful, inconspicuously active, planning like the born statesman she was, executing like a practical politician, Mrs. Morrison gave her mind to the work, and thrived upon it. Circle within circle, and group within group, she set small classes and departments at work, having a boys’ club by and by in the big room over the woodshed, girls’ clubs, reading clubs, study clubs, little meetings of every sort that were not held in churches, and some that

were—previously.

For each and all there was, if wanted, tea and coffee, crackers and cheese; simple fare, of unvarying excellence, and from each and all, into the little cash- box, ten cents for these refreshments. From the club members this came weekly; and the club members, kept up by a constant variety of interests, came every week. As to numbers, before the first six months was over The Haddleton Rest and Improvement Club numbered five hundred

women.

Now, five hundred times ten cents a week is twenty- six hundred dollars a year. Twenty-six hundred dollars a year would not be very much to build or rent a large house, to furnish five hundred people with chairs, lounges, books and magazines, dishes and service; and with food and drink even of the simplest. But if you are miraculously supplied with a club-house, furnished, with a manager and servant on the spot, then that amount of money goes a

long way.

On Saturdays Mrs. Morrison hired two helpers for half a day, for half a dollar each. She stocked the library with many magazines for fify dollars a year. She covered fuel, light, and small miscellanies with another hundred. And she fed her multitude with the plain viands agreed upon, at about four cents apiece.

For her collateral entertainments, her many visits, the various new expenses entailed, she paid

as well; and yet at the end of the first year she had not only her interest, but a solid thousand dollars of clear profit. With a calm smile she surveyed it, heaped in neat stacks of bills in the small safe in the wall behind her bed. Even Sally did not know it was there.

The second season was better than the first. There were difficulties, excitements, even some opposition, but she rounded out the year triumphantly. “After that,” she said to herself, “they may have the

deluge if they like.”

She made all expenses, made her interest, made a little extra cash, clearly her own, all over and above the second thousand dollars.

Then did she write to son and daughter, inviting them and their families to come home to Thanksgiving, and closing each letter with joyous pride: “Here is the money to come with.”

They all came, with all the children and two nurses. There was plenty of room in the Welcome House, and

plenty of food on the long mahogany table. Sally was as brisk as a bee, brilliant in scarlet and purple; Mrs. Morrison carved her big turkey with queenly grace.

“I don’t see that you’re over-run with club women, mother,” said Jeannie.

“It’s Thanksgiving, you know; they’re all at home. I hope they are all as happy, as thankful for their homes as I am for mine,” said Mrs. Morrison.

Afterward Mr. Butts called. With dignity and

calm unruffled, Mrs. Morrison handed him his interest—and principal.

Mr. Butts was almost loath to receive it, though his hand automatically grasped the crisp blue check.

“I didn’t know you had a bank account,” he protested, somewhat dubiously.

“Oh, yes; you’ll find the check will be honored, Mr. Butts.”

“I’d like to know how you got this money. You can’t ‘a’ skinned it out o’ that club of yours.”

“I appreciate your friendly interest, Mr. Butts; you have been most kind.”

“I believe some of these great friends of yours have lent it to you. You won’t be any better off, I can tell you.”

“Come, come, Mr. Butts! Don’t quarrel with good money. Let us part friends.”

And they parted.