My father laid down the spoon. "An omelette!"

"Yes," said my mother. "I thought I would like to try again."

My father stepped into the back kitchen--we dined in the kitchen, as a
rule, it saved much carriage--returning with the wood chopper.

"What ever are you going to do, Luke, with the chopper?" said my
mother.

"Divide the omelette," replied my father.

My mother began to cry.

"Why, Maggie--!" said my father.

"I know the other one was leathery," said my mother, "but it was the
fault of the oven, you know it was, Luke."

"My dear," said my father, "I only meant it as a joke."

"I don't like that sort of joke," said my mother; "it isn't nice of
you, Luke."

I don't think, to be candid, my mother liked much any joke that was
against herself. Indeed, when I come to think of it, I have never met
a woman who did, nor man, either.

There had soon grown up a comradeship between my father and myself for
he was the youngest thing I had met with as yet. Sometimes my mother