“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 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 shan’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 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,