The Kind Mother Used to Make.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 25, 21 December 1910, Page 57

The Kind Mother Used to Make.

The moon had risen. Inspired by its lustrous beauty, Rupert had summoned op the courage to put the great question. As he stammered out the last word, the fair girl, turning her face upward to the sky, with a far-away look in her eye, remained silent for a few moments. “Answer me, sweetheart!” he murmured. “Youi' silence is torture.” “I am thinking what to say, Rupert,” she eaid at last. “There is no denying that I love you. You must have seen what has been evident to everybody else for ia. long time; but I—l must ask you a question 'before I answer yes. I cannot promise to be your wife until I know. Your mother, Rupert, dear—she -—er—she” “Oh, mother is one of the sweetest women in the world, dearest,” he interrupted. “and she loves you dearly.” “Yes, Rupert. I know that,” she went on. “I need no assurance of her sweetness or of her love for me. 1 have met her quite a dozen times, and she has always seemed to me to be one of the loveliest of women —gracious, kindly, free from gossip, and all that; but” “Oh, I see what you mean,” laughed Rupert. “You are afraid that some day mother will wish to come and live with us, and that, sweet and lovely eharaeter though she be, she will try to run your house and so make life a burden to you. Ah, you dear little thing! let me reassure you. Mother is not at all that kind, and, in fact, she said to me only yesterday, when I told her of my love for you, that if I ever married, as she hoped I would now that I had picked out the right kind of a girl, there was one thing that I must promise her—not ever to ask her to come and live with us. She understands fully, and thoroughly believes in a wife's being at the head of her own house” “No, it isn’t that, either dear,” the girl breathed softly. “Your mother would be more than welcome always in my home; but” —• — “Then what on earth can it be, sweetheart?” he demanded, with a note of deep perplexity in his voice, “Did your mother ever —did she ever make” —she stammered. “Make what?” “Pies?” she blurted. “Why, yes, dearest,” he said; “but”—• “I was afraid of it—oh, 1 was so afraid of it!” she sobbed. “Oh, Rupert, dear, 1” ——• “They were, without any exception, the roltenest pies that were ever put to-

getlier at that,” continued Rupert, shuddering at the recollection of them. A little cry of joy fell from the girl’s lips. “They were, Rupert?*’ she cried, joyously. .‘"Yes, sweetheart,” he murmured. “The fact is, I cannot properly characterise those pies in the presence of the woman I have asked to be my wife!”

“Then, Rupert,” she whispered ecstatically into the back of his collar, “I will ibe yours, your own little wife forever and ever and ever." You can never thTow your mother’s pies into my face.” “Well, I guess not,” said Rupert. “If we ever got that far, a brick would be far lees brutal, my best beloved!” And the moon smiled sweetly upon their first embrace.