"Didn't yer ever look at the big feet o' he?" she asked.
"The big feet of who?" I asked, in an elegant form of speech.
"Th' doctor," she answered.
"But these are for my father," I objected.
"Sure, I ought ter have knowed that," she replied. "Ye'll be practicin' on he first, and when yer does real good work ye'll be knittin' 'em fer th' doctor."
"Mrs. Sammy knits stockings for him," I said, severely.
"Well, when he's yer man ye'll not be lettin' other wimmin folks do his knittin' fer he," persisted the ancient dame.
I simply refuse to argue any more with them. They have that idea in their hard old heads and it cannot be dislodged. If you and I had been Newfoundlanders, Auntie dear, we would have married early and been expected to knit stockings, in the intervals of work on the flakes, for the rest of our natural lives. The maidens of this island entertain visions of coming years devoted to the rearing of perfect herds of children, to assorted household work, to drying fish and knitting stockings for their lords and masters, until the end.
I even have a suspicion of Mrs. Barnett, sweet good soul though she be. I walked up to her house yesterday, having met Dr. Grant on the way. He left me at her door, and when I came in she looked at me, wistfully, and I intercepted the tiniest little sigh from her.
"What is the trouble?" I asked her.