J.M. thought of the heavy-eyed, harassed professors of his acquaintance, working nights and Sundays at hack work to satisfy the nervous ambitions of their wives to keep up appearances, and gave a sudden swift embrace to the ragged child on his lap, little Molly, who had developed an especial cult for him, following him everywhere with great pansy eyes of adoring admiration.

On his first expedition out of the yard since his illness, he was touched by the enthusiastic interest which all Main Street took in his progress.  Women with babies came down to nearly every gate to pass the time of day with Rosalie, on whose arm he leaned, and to say in their varying foreign accents that they were glad to see the sick gentleman able to be out.  Since J.M. had had a chance at first-hand observation of the variety of occupation forced upon the mother of seven, he was not surprised that they wore more or less dilapidated wrappers and did not Marcel-wave their hair.  Now he noticed the motherly look in their eyes, and the exuberant health of the children laughing and swarming about them.  When he returned to the house he sat down on the porch to consider a number of new ideas which were springing up in his mind, beginning to return to its old vigor.  Mrs. McCartey came out to see how he had stood the fatigue and said:  “Sure you look smarter than before you went!  It inter_est_ed you now, didn’t it, to have a chance really to see the old place?”

“Yes,” said J.M., “it did, very much.”

Mrs. McCartey went on:  “I’ve been thinkin’ so many times since you come how much luckier you are than most Yankees that come back to their old homes.  It must seem so good to you to see the houses just swarmin’ with young life and to know that the trees and yards and rocks and brooks that give you such a good time when you was a boy, are goin’ on givin’ good times to a string of other boys.”

J.M. looked at her with attentive, surprised eyes.  “Why, do you know,” he cried, “it does seem good, to be sure!”

The other did not notice the oddness of his accent as she ended meditatively:  “You can never get me to believe that it don’t make old Yankees feel low in their minds to go back to their old homes and find just a few white-headed rheumatickers potterin’ around, an’ the grass growing over everything as though it was a molderin’ graveyard that nobody iver walked in, and sorra sign of life anyway you look up and down the street.”

J.M.’s mind flew back to the summer home of the president of Middletown.  “Good gracious,” he exclaimed, “you’re right!”

Mrs. McCartey did not take in to the full this compliment, her mind being suddenly diverted by the appearance of a tall figure at the door of the farther wing of the house.  “Say, Uncle Jerry,” she said, lowering her voice, “Stefan Petrofsky asked me the other day if I thought you would let him talk to you about Ivan some evening?”

“Why, who are they, anyhow?” asked J.M.  “I’ve often wondered why they kept themselves so separate from the rest of us.”  As he spoke he noticed the turn of his phrase and almost laughed aloud.