One evening just before dinner a wife, who had been playing bridge all the afternoon, came in to find her husband and a strange man (afterward ascertained to be a lawyer) engaged in some mysterious business over the library table, upon which were spread several sheets of paper.

“What are you going to do with all that paper, Henry?” demanded the wife.

“I am making a wish,” meekly responded the husband.

“A wish?”

“Yes, my dear. In your presence I shall not presume to call it a will.”

“That’s rather a handsome mantelpiece you have there, Mr. Binkston,” said the visitor.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Binkston, proudly. “That is a memorial to my wife.”

“Why—I was not aware that Mrs. Binkston had passed away,” said the visitor sympathetically.

“Oh no, indeed, she hasn’t,” smiled Mr. Binkston. “She is serving her thirtieth sojourn in jail. That mantelpiece is built of the bricks she was convicted of throwing.”