There was a short pause. The elder flea, a little dry in the mouth with so much talking, again inserted its piercer in the skin beneath it, and drew up another glass of flea wine. And in this the son dutifully imitated the father. “The imp,” continued the elder flea, much refreshed by the draught, “the imp has entered the Bank printing-office. The man without the heart, the poor wretch wriggling and moaning under our feet, resignedly drops upon a stool. He sits wringing his hands for his lost heart; and now his veins tingle, for he hears the creaking of presses. Their motion seems, strangely enough, his motion. And now, the imp that had vanished, comes back again, bringing in his arms the poor man’s heart.” “It can’t be of any use to him, now,” said the younger flea. “Of the best use, my child, as he thinks it. The imp jumps upon the man’s knee, and the heart—it has lost its red colour, and its flesh-like look, and as though all the blood had been discharged from it, is white as a rag, save that the veins show through it all black—yes, black as ink; the heart, nicely fitted by the imp, beats again in its place inside the sleeper. You see! how he smiles—and how his whole body heaves with the chuckle—as he again feels the old acquaintance. And now he can’t make too much of the imp; he throws his arms about him, and paws his little cheeks in drunken fondness. You hear! You hear, how the laugh gurgles in the fool’s throat,—and all because he’s got his heart back again.” “And now, as the dream’s over, father—what say you to another drink?” asked the young flea. “In a minute, for ’tisn’t over yet. No. The place is changed, and the sleeper is carried to see what appears to him Gold’s Grand Review in the Bank cellars.” “What do you mean by Gold’s Review?” demanded the junior. “The imp and the dreamer are in the Bank Cellars. Here, my son, in mighty bars—in bars that can break even the backs of emperors—is gold. The imp takes a new sovereign piece from its bosom, and holds it above its head. Like a small golden sun, it illumines the place. Whereupon, all the bars of gold become pigmy shapes, and all in action. Here we have a whole army—all in gold—marching, wheeling, forming into lines and squares. Here we have little golden shipwrights hammering at golden craft; here, cooks of gold sweating at golden dainties; here, in the cellar, all the works and labours, the commands and services of the world, are shown by the imp in action—drawn into life, for a brief space, from what was a moment before bars of inert metal. It is, my son, as if all the world outside of the walls of the Bank, was imitated by the world’s masters down in the Bank cellars. I can see the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen in little men of gold not bigger than an Alderman’s thumb: and here they act in the metal itself what the metal makes acted in the flesh outside.” “And for what purpose—I don’t see the use of it,” said the young flea.