waving over tiny houses, with men and women an inch high in them, who,
when she breathed on them, fell to walking and talking quite properly.

But the fire was getting low, and the light dim, and presently the
little boy stirred the coals with a stick to make them blaze; when out
jumped a red-hot cinder, and where should it fall, but on the fairy
child's tiny foot.

Thereupon she set up such a squeal, that the boy dropped the stick, and
clapped his hands to his ears but it grew to so shrill a screech, that
it was like all the wind in the world whistling through one tiny
keyhole.

There was a sound in the chimney again, but this time the little boy did
not wait to see what it was, but bolted off to bed, where he hid under
the blankets and listened in fear and trembling to what went on.

A voice came from the chimney speaking sharply:

"Who's there, and what's wrong?" it said.

"It's my own self," sobbed the fairy-child; "and my foot's burnt sore.
O-o-h!"

"Who did it?" said the voice angrily; this time it sounded nearer, and
the boy, peeping from under the clothes, could see a white face looking
out from the chimney-opening.

"Just my own self too!" said the fairy-child again.