down hill all the way from the door to this hearth. This horrid
old chimney will fall on our heads yet; depend upon it, old man."

"Yes, wife, I do depend on it; yes indeed, I place every
dependence on my chimney. As for its settling, I like it. I, too,
am settling, you know, in my gait. I and my chimney are settling
together, and shall keep settling, too, till, as in a great
feather-bed, we shall both have settled away clean out of sight.
But this secret oven; I mean, secret closet of yours, wife; where
exactly do you suppose that secret closet is? "

"That is for Mr. Scribe to say."

"But suppose he cannot say exactly; what, then?"

"Why then he can prove, I am sure, that it must be somewhere or
other in this horrid old chimney."

"And if he can't prove that; what, then?"

"Why then, old man," with a stately air, "I shall say little more
about it."

"Agreed, wife," returned I, knocking my pipe-bowl against the
jamb, "and now, to-morrow, I will for a third time send for Mr.
Scribe. Wife, the sciatica takes me; be so good as to put this
pipe on the mantel."

"If you get the step-ladder for me, I will. This shocking old
chimney, this abominable old-fashioned old chimney's mantels are