Lemmerhirt approached Peregrine, and began to talk in an under-tone of his Rose, elevating her, in the fulness of his heart, into a perfect miracle. But what gave him the most delight was, that Rose had an inclination for the noble art of bookbinding, and in the few weeks that she had been with him had made uncommon advances in the decorative parts, so that she was already much more dexterous than many an oaf of an apprentice, who wasted gold and morocco for years, and set the letters all awry, making them look like so many drunken peasants, staggering out of an ale-house. In the exuberance of his delight, he whispered to Peregrine quite confidentially, "It must out, Mr. Tyss, I can't help it.--Do you know, that it was my Rose who gilded the Ariosto?" Upon hearing this, Peregrine hastily snatched up the book, as if securing it before he was robbed of it by an enemy. Lemmerhirt took this for a sign that Peregrine wished to go, and begged of him to stay a few minutes longer, and this it was that reminded him at last of the necessity of tearing himself away. He hastily paid his bill, and set off home, dragging along the heavy quartos, as if they had been some treasure. On entering his house he was met by the old Alina, who pointed to Swammerdamm's chamber with looks of fear and anxiety. The door was open, and he saw Dörtje Elverdink, sitting in an arm-chair, quite stiff, with a face drawn up, as if it belonged to a corpse, already laid in the grave. Just so stiff, so corpse-like sate before her Pepusch, Swammerdamm, and Leuwenhock. The old woman exclaimed, "Is not that a strange, ghastly spectacle? In this manner the three unhappy beings have sate the whole day long, and eat nothing, and drink nothing, and speak nothing, and scarcely fetch their breath." Peregrine at first felt a slight degree of terror at this strange spectacle, but, as he ascended the stairs, the spectral image was completely swallowed up by the sea of pleasure, in which the delighted Peregrine swam, since his seeing Rose. Wishes, dreams, hopes, were agitating his mind, which he longed to unburthen to some friend; but what friend had Peregrine besides the honest Master Flea? And to him he wished to open his whole heart, to tell him all about Rose,--all in fact that cannot very well be told. But he might call and coax as long as he pleased,--no Master Flea would show himself; he was up and away: at last, in the folds of his neckcloth, where Master Flea had been wont to lodge upon his going abroad, Peregrine found, after a more careful search, a tiny box, whereon was written: "In this is the microscopic glass. If you look steadfastly into the box with your left eye, the glass will immediately be in its pupil; when you want to be freed from the instrument, you have only to gently squeeze the pupil, holding your eye over the box, and the glass will drop into it. I am busy in your service, and risk no little by it, but for so kind a protector I would hazard any thing, as