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.