it may be easily imagined that Peregrine did not get to his object without great difficulty. From the window twinkled down a couple of miserable tapers; with no little toil he clambered up the steep stairs, knocked at the door, and called out, "Open! Open! Christmas sends his presents to all good children."
The bookbinder opened the door in alarm, and it was not till after some consideration that he recognised Peregrine, who was quite covered with snow.
"Worshipful Mr. Tyss!" he exclaimed, full of wonder—"How in the name of Heaven do I come to such an honour on Christmas Eve?"
Worshipful Mr. Tyss, however, would not let him finish, but calling out, "Children! Children! Alert ! Christmas sends his presents"—he took possession of the flap-table in the middle of the room, and immediately began to pull out his presents from the basket; the great Christmas-tree, indeed, which was dripping wet, he had been forced to leave outside the door. Still the bookbinder could not comprehend what it all meant; the wife, however,
