“Slowfoot cannot tell what our little one wishes,” was the reply, “but she never gets it.”
La Certe pondered for some time, and then asked—
“Does my Slowfoot still like work?”
“She likes it still—likes it better.”
“And she does it—sometimes?”
“Yes, often—always.”
“Why?”
“Because Mr Sutherland advises me—and I like Mr Sutherland.”
“Does my Slowfoot expect me to like work too, and to do it?” asked La Certe with a peculiar glance.
“We cannot like what we don’t like, though we may do it,” answered the wife, drawing perilously near to the metaphysical, “but Slowfoot expects nothing. She waits. My François is not a child. He can judge of all things for himself.”