sinners do smoke!--this wicked old chimney and you."

"Wife," said I, "I and my chimney like to have a quiet smoke
together, it is true, but we don't like to be called names."

"Now, dear old man," said she, softening down, and a little
shifting the subject, "when you think of that old kinsman of
yours, you KNOW there must be a secret closet in this chimney."

"Secret ash-hole, wife, why don't you have it? Yes, I dare say
there is a secret ash-hole in the chimney; for where do all the
ashes go to that drop down the queer hole yonder?"

"I know where they go to; I've been there almost as many times as
the cat."

"What devil, wife, prompted you to crawl into the ash-hole? Don't
you know that St. Dunstan's devil emerged from the ash-hole? You
will get your death one of these days, exploring all about as you
do. But supposing there be a secret closet, what then?"

"What then? why what should be in a secret closet but--"

"Dry bones, wife," broke in I with a puff, while the sociable old
chimney broke in with another.

"There again! Oh, how this wretched old chimney smokes," wiping
her eyes with her handkerchief. "I've no doubt the reason it
smokes so is, because that secret closet interferes with the
flue. Do see, too, how the jambs here keep settling; and it's