He had some sense of humour, but my mother had none.

She was one of the sweetest-tempered women that ever lived, and never dreamed that any one was laughing at her.

I have heard my father say she lay awake that night, and when he asked her why she could not sleep he found she was fretting about the pink thorn.
"It looked so pretty to-day, my dear; and thorns are so bad to move!" My father knew her too well to hope to console her by joking about it.
He said gravely: "There's plenty of time yet, love.

The boys are only just in trousers; and we may think of some way to spare it before we come to bricks and mortar." "I've thought of it every way, my dear, I'm afraid," said my mother with a sigh.

But she had full confidence in my father--a trouble shared with him was half cured, and she soon fell asleep.
She certainly had a vivid imagination, though it never was cultivated to literary ends.