Now it so fell out that on the very morning from which we date this first passage of our history, Cornelius awoke earlier than he was wont.  His brow wore an aspect of more than ordinary care.  It was but too evident that his pillow had been disturbed.  Thoughts of more than usual perplexity had deprived him of his usual measure of repose.  His very beard looked abrupt and agitated; his dress bore marks of indifference and haste.  A slight, but tremulous movement of the head, in general but barely visible, was now advanced into a decided shake.  With a step somewhat nimbler than aforetime, he made, as custom had long rendered habitual, his first visit to the counting-house.

The unwearied and indefatigable Timothy Dodge sat there, with the same crooked spectacles, and, as it might seem, mending the same pen which the same knife had nibbed for at least half-a-century.  The tripod on which rested this grey Sidrophel of accompts looked of the like hard and impenetrable material, as though it were grown into his similitude, forming but a lower adjunct to his person.  It was evident they had not parted company for the last twenty years.  Nature had formed him awry.  A boss or hump, of considerable elevation, extended like a huge promontory on one shoulder; from the other depended an arm longer by some inches than its fellow.  As it described a greater arc its activity was proportionate.  His grey and restless eyes followed the merchant’s track with unwearied fidelity; yet was he a man full sparing of words—­the ever ready “Anon, master,” being the chief burden of his replications.  It was like the troll of an old ballad—­a sort of inveterate drawl tripping unwittingly from the tongue.

The sun was just peeping through the long dim casement as Cornelius stepped over the threshold of his sanctuary.  In it lay hidden the mysteries of many a goodly tome, more precious in his eyes than the rarest and richest that Dee’s library could boast.  No mean value, inasmuch as this celebrated scholar and mathematician, who was lately appointed warden of the college, had the most costly store of book-furniture that individual ever possessed.

“Good morrow, Dodge.”

The pen was twice nibbed ere the usual rejoinder.

“Are the camlets arrived from the country?” inquired the merchant.

“Anon, master—­this forenoon may be.”

“Is the accompt against Anthony Hardcastle discharged?”

“No,” ejaculated the grim fixture.

“And where is the piece of Genoa velvet Dame Margery looked out yesterday for her mistress’s wedding-suit?  I do bethink me it is a good ell too long at the measure.”

“Six ells, three nails, and an odd inch, besides the broad thumbs,” replied Timothy.

“Right:—­she reckoned on a good snip for waste; but let no more be sent than the embroiderer calls for.”

“Not a thread,” grunted Dodge.

A pause ensued.  Some question was evidently hesitating on the merchant’s tongue.  Twice did his lips move, but the word fell unuttered.  The affair was, however, finally disposed of as follows:—­