“No, you don’t, gran’fa, dear,” cried Dally. “There, now it’s nice and full.”
“You’ve jammed it in too tight.”
“No, I haven’t, gran’fa. I know exactly how you like it. There! hold still while I fetch you a light. There! there, then. Now pull. Don’t you remember how you used to puff the smoke in my face and make me cough?”
“Ay; and I ’member how you tried to smoke my pipe, and how sick it made you.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Dally, clapping her hands. “Ah! how happy I used to be then with you, gran’fa! Do you remember how you used to take me to the church?”
“Ay,” grunted the old man, puffing away, with a dreamy look in his face.
“And how you used to pretend to bury yourself in the graves when you were digging, so as to frighten me?”
“Ah!” grunted Moredock.
“Then there was that old skull, gran’fa, that I had to play with. What became of that skull?”
“Up in the cupboard in your old bedroom,” grunted Moredock.