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.
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