'Oh, what a fib, Winifred! These sunburnt fingers may have picked
wild fruits, but they never made a pie in their lives.'

'Never made a pie! I make beautiful pies and things; and when we're
married I'll make your pies--may I, instead of a conceited man-cook?'

'No, Winifred. Never make a pie or do a bit of cooking in _my_ house,
I charge you.'

'Oh, why not?' said Winifred, a shade of disappointment overspreading
her face. 'I suppose it's unladylike to cook.'

'Because,' said I,'once let me taste something made by these tanned
fingers, and how could I ever afterwards eat anything made by a
man-cook, conceited or modest? I should say to that poor cook, "Where
is the Winifred flavour, cook? I don't taste those tanned fingers
here." And then, suppose you were to die first, Winifred, why I
should have to starve, just for want of a little Winifred flavour in
the pie-crust. Now I don't want to starve, and you sha'n't cook.'

'Oh, Hal, you dear, dear fellow!' shrieked Winifred, in an ecstasy of
delight at this nonsense. Then her deep love overpowered her quite,
and she said, her eyes suffused with tears, 'Henry, you can't think
how I love you. I'm sure I couldn't live even in heaven without you.'

Then came the shadow of a lich-owl, as it whisked past us towards the
apple-trees.

'Why, you'd be obliged to live without me, Winifred, if I were still