He was a wicked-looking Imp, and he lived in a bed curtain.
No one knew he was in the house, not even the master and mistress. The
little girl who slept in the chintz-curtained bed was the only person
who knew of his existence, and she never mentioned him, even to her
old nurse.
She had made his acquaintance one Christmas Eve, as she lay awake,
trying to keep her tired eyes open long enough to see Santa Klaus come
down the chimney. The Imp sprang into view with a _cr-r-r-ick,
cr-r-r-ack_ of falling wood in the great fireplace, and there he stood
bowing to Marianne from the left-hand corner of the chintz curtain.
A green leaf formed his hat, some straggling branches his feet; his
thin body was a single rose-stem, and his red face a crumpled
rose-bud.
A flaw in the printing of the chintz curtain had given him life--a
life distinct from that of the other rose leaves.
"You're lying awake very late to-night--what's that for?" he enquired,
shaking the leaf he wore upon his head, and looking at Marianne
searchingly.
"Why, don't you see I'm waiting for Santa Klaus?" replied Marianne.
"I've always missed him before, but this time _nothing_ shall make me
go to sleep!" She sat up in bed and opened her eyes as widely as
possible.
"He has generally been here before this," said the Imp. "I can
remember your great-aunt sleeping in this very bed and being in just
the same fuss. I got down and danced about all night, and she thought
I was earwigs."
