for knitting because his head was flat. By way of covering the hearty
laughter of Mr. Devine at his own wit I asked why Sandy should not
consult his employer rather than her cook.

With his ball of brown wool, his needles and his work carried tenderly
before him Sandy explained, with some embarrassment as it seemed, that
the madam was a good knitter, all right, all right, but she was an awful
bitter-spoken lady when any little thing about the place didn't go just
right, making a mountain out of a mole hill, and crying over spilt milk,
and always coming back to the same old subject, and so forth, till you'd
think she couldn't talk about anything else, and had one foot in the
poorhouse, and couldn't take a joke, and all like that. I could believe
it or not, but that was the simple facts of the matter when all was said
and done. And the Chink was only too glad to show off how smart he was
with a pair of needles.

This not only explained nothing but suggested that there might indeed be
something to explain. And it was Sandy's employer after all who resolved
his woolen difficulty. She called to him as he would have left me for the
path to the kitchen door:

"You bring that right here!"

It was the tone of one born to command, and once was enough. Sandy
brought it right there, though going rather too much like a martyr to
the stake, I thought; for surely it was not shameful that he should prove
inept in the new craft.

Nor was there aught but genial kindness in the lady's reception of him.
Ma Pettengill, arrayed in Sabbath bravery of apparel, as of a debutante