> the vanished birds. Soft trills and whistles, odd little shakes and

twitters--it was astonishing what pretty noises the wind made, for it

was in good humor, as winds should be on the Blessed Night; all its

storm-tones and bass-notes were for the moment laid aside, and gently

as though hushing a baby to sleep, it cooed and rustled and brushed to

and fro in the leafless woods.



Toinette stood, pitcher in hand, beside the well. "Wishing Well," the

people called it, for they believed that if any one standing there

bowed to the East, repeated a certain rhyme and wished a wish, the wish

would certainly come true. Unluckily, nobody knew exactly what the

rhyme should be. Toinette did not; she was wishing that she did, as she

stood with her eyes fixed on the bubbling water. How nice it would be!

she thought. What beautiful things should be hers, if it were only to

wish and to have. She would be beautiful, rich, good--oh, so good. The

children should love her dearly, and never be disagreeable. Mother

should not work so hard--they should all go back to France--which

mother said was si belle. Oh, dear, how nice it would be. Meantime, the

sun sank lower, and mother at home was waiting for the water, but

Toinette forgot that.



Suddenly she started. A low sound of crying met her ear, and something

like a tiny moan. It seemed close by but she saw nothing.



Hastily she filled her pitcher and turned to go. But again the sound

came, an unmistakable sob, right under her feet. Toinette stopped short.



"What is the matter?" she called out bravely. "Is anybody there? and if

there is, why don't I see you?"



A third sob--and all at once, down on the ground beside her, a tiny

figure became visible, so small that Toinette had to kneel and stoop

her head to see it plainly. The figure was that of an odd little man.

He wore a garb of green bright and glancing as the scales of a beetle.

In his mite of a hand was a cap, out of which stuck a long pointed

feather. Two specks of tears stood on his cheeks and he fixed on

Toinette a glance so sharp and so sad that it made her feel sorry and

frightened and confused all at once.



"Why how funny this is!" she said, speaking to herself out loud.



"Not at all," replied the little man, in a voice as dry and crisp as

the chirr of a grasshopper. "Anything but funny. I wish you wouldn't

use such words. It hurts my feelings, Toinette."



"Do you know my name, then?" cried Toinette, astonished. "That's

strange. But what is the matter? Why are you crying so, little man?"



"I'm not a little man. I'm an elf," responded the dry voice; "and I

think you'd cry if you had an engagement out to tea, and found yourself

spiked on a great bayonet, so that you couldn't move an inch. Look!" He

turned a little as he spoke and Toinette saw a long rose-thorn sticking

through the back of the green robe. The little man could by no means

reach the thorn, and it held him fast prisoner to the place.



"Is that all? I'll take it out for you," she said.



"Be careful--oh, be careful," entreated the little man. "This is my new

dress, you know--my Christmas suit, and it's got to last a year. If

there is a hole in it, Peascod will tickle me and Bean Blossom tease,

till I shall wish myself dead." He stamped with vexation at the thought.



"Now, you mustn't do that," said Toinette, in a motherly tone, "else

you'll tear it yourself, you know." She broke off the thorn as she

spoke, and gently drew it out. The elf anxiously examined the stuff. A

tiny puncture only was visible and his face brightened.



"You're a good child," he said. "I'll do as much for you some day,

perhaps."



"I would have come before if I had seen you," remarked Toinette,

timidly. "But I didn't see you a bit."



"No, because I had my cap on," cried the elf. He placed it on his head

as he spoke, and hey, presto! nobody was there, only a voice which

laughed and said: "Well--don't stare so. Lay your finger on me now."



"Oh," said Toinette, with a gasp. "How wonderful. What fun it must be

to do that. The children wouldn't see me. I should steal in and

surprise them; they would go on talking, and never guess that I was

there. I should so like it. Do elves ever lend their caps to anybody? I

wish you'd lend me yours. It must be so nice to be invisible."



"Ho," cried the elf, appearing suddenly again. "Lend my cap, indeed!

Why it wouldn't stay on the very tip of your ear, it's so small. As for

nice, that depends. Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. No, the

only way for mortal people to be invisible is to gather the fern-seed

and put it in their shoes."



"Gather it? Where? I never saw any seed to the ferns," said Toinette,

staring about her.



"Of course not--we elves take care of that," replied the little man.

"Nobody finds the fern-seed but ourselves. I'll tell you what, though.

You were such a nice child to take out the thorn so cleverly, that I'll

give you a little of the seed. Then you can try the fun of being

invisible, to your heart's content."



"Will you really? How delightful. May I have it now?"



"Bless me. Do you think I carry my pockets stuffed with it?" said the

elf. "Not at all. Go home, say not a word to any one, but leave your

bedroom window open to night, and you'll see what you'll see."



He laid his finger on his nose as he spoke, gave a jump like a

grasshopper, clapping on his cap as he went, and vanished. Toinette

lingered a moment, in hopes that he might come back, then took her

pitcher and hurried home. The woods were very dusky by this time; but

full of her strange adventures, she did not remember to feel afraid.



"How long you have been," said her mother. "It's late for a little maid

like you to be up. You must make better speed another time, my child."



Toinette pouted as she was apt to do when reproved. The children

clamoured to know what had kept her, and she spoke pettishly and

crossly; so that they too became cross, and presently went away into

the outer kitchen to play by themselves. The children were apt to creep

away when Toinette came. It made her angry and unhappy at times that

they should do so, but she did not realize that it was in great part

her own fault, and so did not set herself to mend it.



"Tell me a 'tory," said baby Jeanneton, creeping to her knee a little

later. But Toinette's head was full of the elf; she had no time to

spare for Jeanneton.



"Oh, not to-night," she replied. "Ask mother to tell you one."



"Mother's busy," said Jeanneton wistfully.



Toinette took no notice and the little one crept away disconsolately.





Bedtime at last. Toinette set the casement open, and lay a long time

waiting and watching; then she fell asleep. She waked with a sneeze and

jump and sat up in bed. Behold, on the coverlet stood her elfin friend,

with a long train of other elves beside him, all clad in the

beetle-wing green, and wearing little pointed caps. More were coming in

at the window; outside a few were drifting about in the moon rays,

which lit their sparkling robes till they glittered like so many

fireflies. The odd thing was, that though the caps were on, Toinette

could see the elves distinctly and this surprised her so much, that

again she thought out loud and said, "How funny."



"You mean about the caps," replied her special elf, who seemed to have

the power of reading thought.



"Yes, you can see us to-night, caps and all. Spells lose their value on

Christmas Eve, always. Peascod, where is the box? Do you still wish to

try the experiment of being invisible, Toinette?"



"Oh, yes--indeed I do."



"Very well; so let it be."



As he spoke he beckoned, and two elves puffing and panting like little

men with a heavy load, dragged forward a droll little box about the

size of a pumpkin-seed.



One of them lifted the cover.



"Pay the porter, please, ma'am," he said giving Toinette's ear a

mischievous tweak with his sharp fingers.



"Hands off, you bad Peascod!" cried Toinette's elf. "This is my girl.

She shan't be pinched!" He dealt Peascod a blow with his tiny hand as

he spoke and looked so brave and warlike that he seemed at least an

inch taller than he had before. Toinette admired him very much; and

Peascod slunk away with an abashed giggle muttering that Thistle

needn't be so ready with his fist.



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:



"If he has, I shall ask mother to let me have her room for my own."



Poor Toinette, her cheeks burned and her eyes filled with tears at

this. Didn't the boys love her a bit then? Next she grew angry, and

longed to box Marc's ears, only she recollected in time that she was

invisible. What a bad boy he was, she thought.



The smoking porridge reminded her that she was hungry; so brushing away

the tears she slipped a spoon off the table and whenever she found the

chance, dipped it into the bowl for a mouthful. The porridge

disappeared rapidly.



"I want some more," said Jeanneton.



"Bless me, how fast you have eaten," said the mother, turning to the

bowl.



This made Toinette laugh, which shook her spoon, and a drop of the hot

mixture fell right on the tip of Marie's nose as she sat with upturned

face waiting her turn for a second helping. Marie gave a little scream.



"What is it?" said the mother.



"Hot water! Right in my face!" sputtered Marie.



"Water!" cried Marc. "It's porridge."



"You spattered with your spoon. Eat more carefully, my child," said the

mother, and Toinette laughed again as she heard her. After all, there

was some fun in being invisible.



The morning went by. Constantly the mother went to the door, and,

shading her eyes with her hand, looked out, in hopes of seeing a little

figure come down the wood-path, for she thought perhaps the child went

to the spring after water, and fell asleep there. The children played

happily, meanwhile. They were used to doing without Toinette and did

not seem to miss her, except that now and then baby Jeanneton said:

"Poor Toinette gone--not here--all gone."



"Well, what if she has?" said Marc at last looking up from the wooden

cup he was carving for Marie's doll. "We can play all the better."



Marc was a bold, outspoken boy, who always told his whole mind about

things.



"If she were here," he went on," she'd only scold and interfere.

Toinette almost always scolds. I like to have her go away. It makes it

pleasanter."



"It is rather pleasanter," admitted Marie, "only I'd like her to be

having a nice time somewhere else."



"Bother about Toinette," cried Pierre.



"Let's play 'My godmother has cabbage to sell.'"



I don't think Toinette had ever felt so unhappy in her life, as when

she stood by unseen, and heard the children say these words. She had

never meant to be unkind to them, but she was quick-tempered, dreamy,

wrapped up in herself. She did not like being interrupted by them, it

put her out, and she spoke sharply and was cross. She had taken it for

granted that the others must love her, by a sort of right, and the

knowledge that they did not grieved over very much. Creeping away, she

hid herself in the woods. It was a sparkling day, but the sun did not

look so bright as usual. Cuddled down under a rosebush, Toinette sat

sobbing as if her heart would break at the recollection of the speeches

she had overheard.



By and by a little voice within her woke up and began to make itself

audible. All of us know this little voice. We call it conscience.



"Jeanneton missed me," she thought. "And, oh, dear! I pushed her away

only last night and wouldn't tell her a story. And Marie hoped I was

having a pleasant time somewhere. I wish I hadn't slapped Marie last

Friday. And I wish I hadn't thrown Marc's ball into the fire that day I

was angry with him. How unkind he was to say that--but I wasn't always



kind to him. And once I said that I wished a bear would eat Pierre up.

That was because he broke my cup. Oh, dear, oh, dear. What a bad girl

I've been to them all."



"But you could be better and kinder if you tried, couldn't you?" said

the inward voice. "I think you could."



And Toinette clasped her hands tight and said out loud: "I could.

Yes--and I will."



The first thing to be done was to get rid of the fern-seed which she

now regarded as a hateful thing. She untied her shoes and shook it out

in the grass. It dropped and seemed to melt into the air, for it

instantly vanished. A mischievous laugh sounded close behind, and a

beetle-green coat-tail was visible whisking under a tuft of rushes. But

Toinette had had enough of the elves, and, tying her shoes, took the

road toward home, running with all her might.



"Where have you been all day, Toinette?" cried the children, as,

breathless and panting, she flew in at the gate. But Toinette could not

speak. She made slowly for her mother, who stood in the doorway, flung

herself into her arms and burst into a passion of tears.



"Ma cherie, what is it, whence hast thou come?" asked the good mother

alarmed. She lifted Toinette into her arms as she spoke, and hastened

indoors. The other children followed, whispering and peeping, but the

mother sent them away, and sitting down by the fire with Toinette in

her lap, she rocked and hushed and comforted, as though Toinette had

been again a little baby. Gradually the sobs ceased. For a while

Toinette lay quiet, with her head on her mother's breast. Then she

wiped her wet eyes, put her arms around her mother's neck, and told her

all from the very beginning, keeping not a single thing back. The dame

listened with alarm.



"Saints protect us," she muttered. Then feeling Toinette's hands and

head, "Thou hast a fever," she said. "I will make thee a tisane, my

darling, and thou must at once go to bed." Toinette vainly protested;

to bed she went and perhaps it was the wisest thing, for the warm drink

threw her into a long sound sleep and when she woke she was herself

again, bright and well, hungry for dinner, and ready to do her usual

tasks.



Herself--but not quite the same Toinette that she had been before.

Nobody changes from bad to better in a minute. It takes time for that,

time and effort, and a long struggle with evil habits and tempers. But

there is sometimes a certain minute or day in which people begin to

change, and thus it was with Toinette. The fairy lesson was not lost

upon her. She began to fight with herself, to watch her faults and try

to conquer them. It was hard work; often she felt discouraged, but she

kept on. Week after week and month after month she grew less selfish,

kinder, more obliging than she used to be. When she failed and her old

fractious temper got the better of her, she was sorry and begged every

one's pardon so humbly that they could not but forgive. The mother

began to think that the elves really had bewitched her child. As for

the children they learned to love Toinette as never before, and came to

her with all their pains and pleasures, as children should to a kind

older sister. Each fresh proof of this, every kiss from Jeanneton,

every confidence from Marc, was a comfort to Toinette, for she never

forgot Christmas Day, and felt that no trouble was too much to wipe out

that unhappy recollection. "I think they like me better than they did

then," she would say; but then the thought came, "Perhaps if I were

invisible again, if they did not know I was there, I might hear

something to make me feel as badly as I did that morning." These sad

thoughts were part of the bitter fruit of the fairy fern-seed.



So with doubts and fears the year went by, and again it was Christmas

Eve. Toinette had been asleep some hours when she was roused by a sharp

tapping at the window pane. Startled, and only half awake, she sat up

in bed and saw by the moonlight a tiny figure outside which she

recognized. It was Thistle drumming with his knuckles on the glass.



"Let me in," cried the dry little voice. So Toinette opened the

casement, and Thistle flew in and perched as before on the coverlet.



"Merry Christmas, my girl." he said, "and a Happy New Year when it

comes. I've brought you a present;" and, dipping into a pouch tied

round his waist, he pulled out a handful of something brown. Toinette

knew what it was in a moment.



"Oh, no," she cried shrinking back. "Don't give me any fern-seeds. They

frighten me. I don't like them."



"Don't be silly," said Thistle, his voice sounding kind this time, and

earnest. "It wasn't pleasant being invisible last year, but perhaps

this year it will be. Take my advice, and try it. You'll not be sorry."



"Sha'n't I?" said Toinette, brightening. "Very well, then, I will." She

leaned out of bed, and watched Thistle strew the fine dustlike grains

in each shoe.



"I'll drop in to-morrow night, and just see how you like it," he said.

Then, with a nod, he was gone.



The old fear came back when she woke in the morning, and she tied on

her shoes with a tremble at her heart. Downstairs she stole. The first

thing she saw was a wooden ship standing on her plate. Marc had made

the ship, but Toinette had no idea it was for her.



The little ones sat round the table with their eyes on the door,

watching till Toinette should come in and be surprised.



"I wish she'd hurry," said Pierre, drumming on his bowl with a spoon.



"We all want Toinette, don't we?" said the mother, smiling as she

poured the hot porridge.



"It will be fun to see her stare," declared Marc.



"Toinette is jolly when she stares. Her eyes look big and her cheeks

grow pink. Andre Brugen thinks his sister Aline is prettiest, but I

don't. Our Toinette is ever so pretty."



"She is ever so nice, too," said Pierre. "She's as good to play with

as--as--a boy," finished triumphantly.



"Oh, I wish my Toinette would come," said Jeanneton.



Toinette waited no longer, but sped upstairs with glad tears in her

eyes. Two minutes, and down she came again visible this time. Her heart

was light as a feather.



"Merry Christmas!" clamoured the children. The ship was presented,

Toinette was duly surprised, and so the happy day began.



That night Toinette left the window open, and lay down in her clothes;

for she felt, as Thistle had been so kind, she ought to receive him

politely. He came at midnight, and with him all the other little men in

green.



"Well, how was it?" asked Thistle.



"Oh, I liked it this time," declared Toinette, with shining eyes, "and

I thank you so much."



"I'm glad you did," said the elf. "And I'm glad you are thankful, for

we want you to do something for us."



"What can it be?" inquired Toinette, wondering.



"You must know," went on Thistle, "that there is no dainty in the world

which we elves enjoy like a bowl of fern-seed broth. But it has to be

cooked over a real fire, and we dare not go near fire, you know, lest

our wings scorch. So we seldom get any fern-seed broth. Now, Toinette,

will you make us some?"



"Indeed, I will!" cried Toinette, "only you must tell me how."



"It is very simple," said Peascod; "only seed and honey dew, stirred

from left to right with a sprig of fennel. Here's the seed and the

fennel, and here's the dew. Be sure and stir from the left; if you

don't, it curdles, and the flavour will be spoiled."



Down into the kitchen they went, and Toinette, moving very softly,

quickened the fire, set on the smallest bowl she could find, and spread

the doll's table with the wooden saucers which Marc had made for

Jeanneton to play with. Then she mixed and stirred as the elves bade,

and when the soup was done, served it to them smoking hot. How they

feasted! No bumblebee, dipping into a flower-cup, ever sipped and

twinkled more rapturously than they.



When the last drop was eaten, they made ready to go. Each in turn

kissed Toinette's hand, and said a word of farewell. Thistle brushed

his feathered cap over the doorpost as he passed.



"Be lucky, house," he said, "for you have received and entertained the

luck-bringers. And be lucky, Toinette. Good temper is good luck, and

sweet words and kind looks and peace in the heart are the fairest of

fortunes. See that you never lose them again, my girl." With this, he,

too, kissed Toinette's hand, waved his feathered cap, and--whir! they

all were gone, while Toinette, covering the fire with ashes and putting

aside the little cups, stole up to her bed a happy child.