"You don't want it?
"Nonsense, you do; for you're not strong, Caudle; you know you're not.
"I'm sure, the money she'd save us in housekeeping. Ha! what an eye she has for a joint! The butcher doesn't walk that could deceive dear mother. And then, again, for poultry! What a finger and thumb she has for a chicken! I never could market like her: it's a gift— quite a gift.
"And then you recollect her marrow-puddings?
"You don't recollect 'em?
"Oh, fie! Caudle, how often have you flung her marrow puddings in my face, wanting to know why I couldn't make 'em? And I wouldn't pretend to do it after dear mother. I should think it presumption. Now, love, if she was only living with us—come, you're not asleep, Caudle—if she was only living with us, you could have marrow puddings every day. Now, don't fling yourself about and begin to swear at marrow puddings; you know you like 'em, dear.
"What a hand, too, dear mother has for a pie crust! But it's born with some people. What do you say?
"Why wasn't it born with me?
"Now, Caudle, that's cruel—unfeeling of you; I wouldn't have uttered such a reproach to you for the whole world. Consider, dear; people can't be born as they like.
"How often, too, have you wanted to brew at home! And I never could learn anything about brewing. But, ha! what ale dear mother makes!
"You never tasted it?
"No, I know that. But I recollect the ale we used to have at home: and father would never drink wine after it. The best sherry was nothing like it.
