My chimney does not smoke once in six months; but to-day, as ill-luck would have it, an unfortunate little puff came out in the presence of Miss Burt, who immediately declared that my chimney wanted sweeping shockingly; and that if I did not immediately put the chimney-sweeper’s services in requisition, I should not only be endangering my own life,—which I had no right to throw away,—but that of my servant, who would not particularly relish being burnt in her bed. In vain I assured her that the chimney had not long been swept. Miss Burt talked me down, utterly deaf to the reminder that, being on the ground floor, we could easily walk out of the house in case of any disaster. “As if _you_ could walk out of the house!” cried Miss Burt, indignantly; and just then, Phillis coming in with coals, “Phillis,” cried she, “have you any mind to be burnt in your bed?” “I should think not, Miss Burt,” replies Phillis, brisking up, and looking secure of some very entertaining rejoinder. “You hear,” says Miss Burt, nodding triumphantly at me. “You may go, Phillis,” said I, softly, which she did with some reluctance. I was in nervous expectation of a fresh puff, when Miss Burt luckily found herself a new subject. “There goes Miss Sidney!” said she. “How she does poke to be sure. Any one can see she has never had dancing-lessons. I think Mr. Sidney much to blame. By the way, Frank gave us an excellent sermon on Sunday. I wish you could have heard him.” “I wish I could,” said I. “Oh, I don’t suppose you care much about it, as you had Miss Secker to read Jeremy Taylor. Doesn’t she read through her nose?” “Dear me, no!” “Well, I should have expected it. Young people waste hours on their music now-a-days, but—commend me to a good reader.” “Then,” said I, laughing, “I really can commend you to Miss Secker, or at any rate, honestly commend her to _you_; for her reading is neither too fast nor too slow, too loud nor too low; her voice is pleasant and her manner reverent.” “Ah, I like something _earnest_.” “She is earnest too. What a favourite word that is now.” “Is it? Then I’ll drop it! I hate words that are used up:—suggestive, sensuous, subjective, objective. Bad as Shakspere, taste, and the musical glasses!” She started up, and was going to take leave, when she stopped short and said— “What do you think that absurd man, Mr. Hitchin, has done? Painted his cypher on his wheel-barrow!” “Well,” said I, amused, “I cannot emulate him very closely, as I have no wheel-barrow, but I can put my crest on my watering-pot!” She laughed rather grudgingly, and said, “I suppose you don’t remember the tax on armorial bearings.” The chimney-sweeper has just called!—Miss Burt met him, and told him there would be no harm in his just looking in, to know if he were wanted! * * * * * Can April indeed be here? Yes, the blackbird wakes me at six o’clock, and the nightingale sings long after the sun has set.