Thistle—­for thus, it seemed, Toinette’s friend was named—­dipped his fingers in the box, which was full of fine brown seeds, and shook a handful into each of Toinette’s shoes, as they stood, toes together by the bedside.

“Now you have your wish,” he said, and can go about and do what you like, no one seeing.  The charm will end at sunset.  Make the most of it while you can; but if you want to end it sooner, shake the seeds from the shoes and then you are just as usual.”

“Oh, I shan’t want to,” protested Toinette; “I’m sure I shan’t.”

“Good-bye,” said Thistle, with a mocking little laugh.

“Good-bye, and thank you ever so much,” replied Toinette.

“Good-bye, good-bye,” replied the other elves, in shrill chorus.  They clustered together, as if in consultation; then straight out of the window they flew like a swarm of gauzy-winged bees, and melted into the moonlight.  Toinette jumped up and ran to watch them but the little men were gone—­not a trace of them was to be seen; so she shut the window, went back to bed and presently in the midst of her amazed and excited thoughts fell asleep.

She waked in the morning, with a queer, doubtful feeling.  Had she dreamed, or had it really happened?  She put on her best petticoat and laced her blue bodice; for she thought the mother would perhaps take them across the wood to the little chapel for the Christmas service.  Her long hair smoothed and tied, her shoes trimly fastened, downstairs she ran.  The mother was stirring porridge over the fire.  Toinette went close to her, but she did not move or turn her head.

“How late the children are,” she said at last, lifting the boiling pot on the hob.  Then she went to the stair-foot and called, “Marc, Jeanneton, Pierre, Marie.  Breakfast is ready, my children.  Toinette—­but where, then, is Toinette?  She is used to be down long before this.”

“Toinette isn’t upstairs,” said Marie from above.

“Her door is wide open, and she isn’t there.”

“That is strange,” said the mother.  “I have been here an hour, and she has not passed this way since.”  She went to the outer door and called, “Toinette!  Toinette!” passing close to Toinette as she did so.  And looking straight at her with unseeing eyes.  Toinette, half frightened, half pleased, giggled low to herself.  She really was invisible, then.  How strange it seemed and what fun it was going to be.

The children sat down to breakfast, little Jeanneton, as the youngest, saying grace.  The mother distributed the porridge and gave each a spoon but she looked anxious.

“Where can Toinette have gone?” she said to herself.  Toinette was conscious-pricked.  She was half inclined to dispel the charm on the spot.  But just then she caught a whisper from Pierre to Marc which so surprised her as to put the idea out of her head.

“Perhaps a wolf has eaten her up—­a great big wolf like the ’Capuchon Rouge,’ you know.”  This was what Pierre said; and Marc answered unfeelingly: