The girls were out of hearing, as she said this; they had got their
story, and gone back to their red roof and their willow tree.

"Why, Luclarion!" exclaimed Mrs. Ripwinkley, as she drew out and
unfolded the letter sheet. "It's from Uncle Titus Oldways."

"Then he ain't dead," remarked Luclarion, and went away into the
kitchen.

"MY DEAR FRANCES,--I am seventy-eight years old. It is time I
got acquainted with some of my relations. I've had other work
to do in the world heretofore (at least I thought I had), and
so, I believe, have they. But I have a wish now to get you and
your sister to come and live nearer to me, that we may find out
whether we really are anything to each other or not. It seems
natural, I suppose, that we might be; but kinship doesn't all
run in the veins.

"I do not ask you to do this with reference to any possible
intentions of mine that might concern you after my death; my
wish is to do what is right by you, in return for your
consenting to my pleasure in the matter, while I am alive. It
will cost you more to live in Boston than where you do now, and
I have no business to expect you to break up and come to a new
home unless I can make it an object to you in some way. You can
do some things for your children here that you could not do in
Homesworth. I will give you two thousand dollars a year to live
on, and secure the same to you if I die. I have a house here in
Aspen Street, not far from where I live myself, which I will