University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE RUNAWAY.

Tea was over, and the little guests made ready to go
home. Cousin Tom, declining Mrs. Legrange's invitation
to dinner on plea of another engagement, delighted Miss
Minnie Wall's heart by offering to wait upon her home,
but rather injured the effect of his politeness by taking
Willy and Jerry Noble upon the other side, and talking
pegtop with them as glibly as he talked opera with the
young lady.

As for the rest, some went alone, some with their nurses,
some with each other. Little Bessie Rider was the last;
and, when the nurse did not come for her as had been promised,
Mrs. Legrange bid Susan lead her home, leaving
'Toinette in the drawing-room till her return.

“And I must go and lie down a little before I dress for
dinner,” continued she to 'Toinette. “So, Sunshine, I shall
leave you here alone, if you will promise not to touch any
thing you should not, or to go too near the fire.”

The little girl promised; and, with a lingering kiss, her
mother left her.

Alone in the twilight, 'Toinette sat for a while upon the
rug, watching the bright coals as they tinkled through the
grate, or rushed in roaring flame up the chimney.

“I wish I was a fire-fairy, and lived in that big red hole
right in the middle of the fire,” thought 'Toinette. “Then
I would wear such a beautiful dress just like gold, and a
wreath on my head all blazing with fire; and I would dance
a-tiptoe away up the chimney and into the sky: and perhaps
I should come to heaven; no, to the sun. I wonder
if the sun is heaven for the fire-fairies, and I wonder if
they dance in the sunset.”

So 'Toinette jumped up, and, running to one of the long
windows, put her little eager face close to the glass, and
looked far away across the square, and down the long
street beyond, to the beautiful western sky, all rosy and
golden and purple with the sunset-clouds; while just above
them a great white star stood trembling in the deep blue,
as if frightened at finding itself out all alone in the night.

“No,” thought 'Toinette; “I don't want to be a fire-fairy,
and dance in the sunset: I want to be a — a angel, I
guess, and live in that beautiful star. Then I'd have a

dress all white and shining like mamma's that she wore to
the ball. But mamma said the little girl in the story was
naughty to like her pretty dress, and she weared a gingham
one when she was good. Guess I won't be any fairy.
I'll be Finnikin Fine, and wear a gingham gown and an
apron. I'll tell papa to carry away the bracelets too. I'm
going to be good like Merry that weared a sun-bonnet.”

Eager to commence the proposed reform, 'Toinette tugged
at the bracelet upon her left shoulder until she broke the
clasp and tore the pretty lace of her under-sleeve.

“Dear, dear, what a careless child!” exclaimed the
little girl, remembering the phrase so often repeated to her.
“But it ain't any matter, I guess,” added she, brightening
up; “for I sha'n't have any under-sleeve to my gingham
dress. Susan's aunt doesn't.”

'Toinette paused, with her hand upon the other bracelet,
trying to remember whether Susan, or the little girl who
came to see her, was the aunt. The question was not yet
settled, when the sound of music in the street below attracted
'Toinette's attention. Clinging to the window-ledge
so as to see over the iron railing of the balcony, she peeped
down, and saw a small dark man walking slowly by the
house, turning the crank of a hand-organ which he carried

at his side. Upon the organ was perched a monkey, dressed
in a red coat with gilt buttons, a little cocked hat, and blue
trousers. He was busily eating a seed-cake; pausing now
and then to look about him in a sort of anxious way, chattering
all the while as if he thought some one wanted to
take it away from him.

'Toinette had never before seen a monkey; and she stared
at this one in great surprise and delight, taking him for a
little man, and his inarticulate chattering for words in some
foreign language such as she had sometimes heard spoken.

The music also suited the little girl's ear better than the
best strains of the Italian opera would have done; and
altogether she was resolved to see and hear more both of
the monkey and the music.

“Mamma's asleep, and Susan gone out; so I can't ask
leave, but I'll only stay a little tiny minute, and tell the
little man what is his name, and what he is saying,”
reasoned the pretty runaway, primly wrapping herself
in her mother's breakfast-shawl left lying upon the sofa,
and tying her handkerchief over her head.

“Now I's decent, and the cold won't catch me,” murmured
she, regarding herself in the mirror with much satisfaction,
and then running softly down stairs. Susan,

thinking she should be back directly, had left the catch-latch
of the front-door fastened up: so 'Toinette had only to
turn the great silver handle of the other latch; and this, by
putting both hands to it and using all her strength, she finally
succeeded in doing, although she could not close the door
behind her. Leaving it ajar, 'Toinette ran down the steps,
and looked eagerly along the square until she discovered
the hand-organ man with his monkey just turning the corner,
and flew after him as fast as her little feet would carry
her. But, with all her haste, the man had already turned
another corner before she overtook him, and was walking,
more quickly than he had yet done, down a narrow street.
He was not playing now; but the monkey, who had finished
his cake, was climbing over his master's shoulders, running
down his arms and back, chattering, grinning, making faces,
and evidently having a little game of romps on his own
account.

'Toinette, very much amused, tripped along behind, talking
as fast as the monkey, and asking all manner of questions,
to none of which either monkey or man made any
reply; while all the time the beautiful rosy light was fading
out of the west, and the streets were growing dark and

crowded; and as the organ-grinder, followed by 'Toinette,
turned from one into another, each was dirtier and narrower
and more disagreeable than the last.

All at once, the man, after hesitating for a moment, dashed
across the street, and into a narrow alley opposite. Two
or three dirt-carts were passing at the same time; and
'Toinette, afraid to follow, stood upon the edge of the sidewalk,
looking wistfully after him, and beginning to wonder
if she ought not to be going home.

While she wondered, a number of rude boys came rushing
by; and, either by accident or malice, the largest one, in
passing the little girl, pushed her so roughly, that she stumbled
off the sidewalk altogether, and fell into the gutter.

A little hurt, a good deal frightened, and still more indignant,
'Toinette picked herself up, and looked ruefully at
the mud upon her pretty dress, but would not allow herself
to cry, as she longed to do.

“If I'd got my gingham dress on, it wouldn't do so much
harm,” thought she, her mind returning to the story she
had that afternoon heard; and then all at once an anxious
longing for home and mother seized the little heart, and
sent the tiny feet flying up the narrow street as fast as they

could move. But, at the corner, 'Toinette, who never had
seen the street before, took the wrong turn; and, although
she ran as fast as she could, every step now led her farther
from home, and deeper into the squalid by-streets and
alleys, among which she was lost.