“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 piecrust? 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. People can't be born as they like. “How often, too, have you wanted to brew at home! And I never could learn any thing 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: father never would drink wine after it. The best sherry was nothing like it. _You dare say not?_ No; it wasn't, indeed, Caudle. Then, if dear mother was only with us, what money we should save in beer! And then you might always have your own nice, pure, good, wholesome ale, Caudle: and what good it would do you! For you're not strong, Caudle. “And then dear mother's jams and preserves, love! I own it, Caudle; it has often gone to my heart that with cold meat you hav'n't always had a pudding. Now, if mother was with us, in the matter of fruit-puddings, she'd make it summer all the year round. But I never could preserve--now mother does it, and for next to no money whatever. What nice dogs-in-a-blanket she'd make for the children! _What's dogs-in-a-blanket?_ Oh, they 're delicious--as dear mother makes 'em. “Now, you _have_ tasted her Irish stew, Caudle? You remember that? Come, you 're not asleep--you remember that? And how fond you are of it! And I never can have it made to please you! Now what a relief to me it would be if dear mother was always at hand that you might have a stew when you liked. What a load it would be off my mind! “Again, for pickles! Not at all like anybody else's pickles. Her red cabbage--why, it's as crisp as biscuit! And then her walnuts--and her all-sorts? Eh, Caudle? You know how you love pickles; and how we sometimes tiff about 'em? Now, if dear mother was here, a word would never pass between us. And I'm sure nothing would make me happier, for--you 're not asleep, Caudle!--for I can't bear to quarrel, can I, love? “The children, too, are so fond of her! And she'd be such a help to me with 'em! I'm sure with dear mother in the house, I shouldn't care a fig for measles, or any thing of the sort. As a nurse, she's such a treasure!