For the first time in his life J.M. felt himself to be a person of almost unlimited resources, both of knowledge and wealth, as the pitiful meagerness of his hosts supply of these commodities was revealed to him in these talks, more intimate than any he had known, more vitally human than any he had ever heard.  The acquisition of rare first edition, perhaps the most stirring event in his life in Middletown, had never aroused him to anything like the eagerness with which he heard the Loyettes helplessly bemoaning their inability to do anything for their oldest child, Rosalie, a slim girl of seventeen.  Her drawing-teacher at school had said that the child had an unusual gift for designing, and a manufacturer of wallpaper, who had seen some of her work on a visit to the Woodville factory, had confirmed this judgment and said that “something ought to be done for her.”

“But what?” her parents wondered with an utter ignorance of the world outside of Woodville which astonished J.M.

“Why don’t you send her to a school of design?” he asked.

“Vat is zat?” asked Papa Loyette blankly, and “We have no money,” sighed Maman.

J.M. stirred himself, wrote to the director of a school of design in Albany, consulted the priest of the parish, sent some of Rosalie’s work, and asked about scholarships.  When a favorable answer came, he hurried to explain the matter to the Loyettes and offered to provide the four dollars a week necessary for her board at the Catholic Home for Working Girls, of which the priest had told him.  He went to bed that night with his heart beating faster from the reflection of their agitated joy than it had done for years.  He could not get to sleep for a long time, such a thrill of emotion did he get from each recollection of Maman Loyette’s broad face bathed in tears of gratitude.

After this they fell into the way of asking him about all their problems, from the management of difficult children to what to do about an unjust foreman and whether to join the union.  The childless, unpractical, academic old bachelor, forced to meditate on these new subjects, gave utterance to advice whose sagacity amazed himself.  He had not known it was in him to have such sensible ideas about how to interest a growing boy in athletics to keep him from drinking; and as for the question of unions, he boiled at the memory of some of the half-baked, pedantic theories he had heard promulgated by the professor of political economy in Middletown.

On the other hand, he stood in wonder at the unconscious but profound wisdom which these ignorant people showed as to the fundamentals of life.

“No, we’re not much for clothes!” said Mrs. McCartey, comfortably tucking up her worn and faded sleeves.  “Haven’t we all of us enough good clothes to go to Mass in, and that’s a’plenty!  The rest of Pat’s money goes to gettin’ lots of good food for the children, bless their red faces and fat little bellies! and laying by a dollar or so a week against the rainy day.  Children can play better, anyhow, with only overalls and shirts.  The best times for kids is the cheapest!”