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The Loyette children insisted on being included in the rejoicing over the convalescent's step forward, and soon Pierre, the oldest boy, was haled before J.M. himself to account for his having dared to use the McCartey name for the sick man. "You're not his Uncle Jerry, are you?" demanded Mike McCartey. J.M. thought that now was the time to repress the too exuberant McCartey familiarity.
McCartey or Mrs. Loyette sewed near him to keep an eye on the children, but, as his strength came back, they made him, with a sigh of relief, their substitute, and disappeared into the house about neglected housework. "Oh, ain't it lovely now!" cried Mrs. McCartey to Mrs.
From the three rural mail-delivery boxes at the gate, he gathered that three families were crowded into the house which had seemed none too large for his father, his mother, and himself. He put on his glasses and read the names shudderingly Jean-Baptiste Loyette, Patrick McCartey, and S. Petrofsky.
"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.
Loyette, "to have an old person of your own about the place that you can leave the children with a half-minute, while you snatch the wash-boiler off the fire or keep the baby from cuttin' her throat with the butcher-knife." Mrs. Loyette agreed, shaking her sleek black head a great many times in emphasis.
Indeed, J.M. found that he was the subject of unaccountable pride to all the family, and one of the first of those decisions of his between McCartey and Loyette occurred that very morning.
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