As he slid under the bed clothes and sprawled out in solid comfort, his foot touched something cold, clammy, repellent. He barely repressed a shriek. He threw back the bed clothes. Yes, the frog again! “Now, how did he ever get there?” cried Wendell in bewilderment. “I’m sure he couldn’t open the door. It _is_ magic, for sure.” “_She_, you mean. You can’t shake her,” rejoined the Pixie maliciously. “It’s your fairy tale, you know, and you are The Rescuer.” “Well, what shall I do with her now?” asked Wendell in despair. “Do you suppose she’d stay here if I went into Cousin Virginia’s room?” “Not for a moment,” said the Pixie. “I tell you. You put her under the down puff, on the foot of the bed, and I’ll keep an eye on her.” It seemed about five minutes after Wendell was in bed, when he awoke suddenly and found that the Pixie was pounding him severely. “Hold on! Hold on!” he called. “What’s the matter?” “The matter is, I’ve been trying for the last ten minutes to wake you,” said the Pixie, exasperated. “The Sleeping Beauty had nothing on you. Hurry up, now, or you won’t get there at midnight.” Wendell tumbled into his clothes and tiptoed, as noiselessly as in him lay, down the broad old-fashioned stairs, and still another flight to the basement. He did not dare risk the noise of the front door, so he emerged from the kitchen into the back alley, and thence to the street. Not a person was in sight. Only a black and white cat prowled the gutters. A strange silence covered the city. Even the surging, seething roar of West End children at play, which rises all the evening, was stilled. Wendell’s running footsteps, beating rhythmic time on the brick pavement of Old Boston, alone broke the stillness. No traffic policemen presided over Beacon Street. He gained the Common, skirted the Frog Pond, and faced Flag Staff Hill and, brave boy though he was, he did tremble in his boots.