‘Ah! yes! I know now,’ said the Wolf. ‘Well, that’s just where I’m going; I shall get there before you, no doubt, with your little bits of legs, and I’ll tell her you’re coming to see her; then she’ll wait for you.’ Thereupon the Wolf cuts across the wood, and in five minutes arrives at the Grandmother’s house. He knocks at the door: toc, toc. No answer. He knocks louder. Nobody. Then he stands up on end, puts his two fore-paws on the latch and the door opens. Not a soul in the house. The old woman had risen early to sell herbs in the town, and she had gone off in such haste that she had left her bed unmade, with her great night-cap on the pillow. ‘Good!’ said the Wolf to himself, ‘I know what I’ll do.’ He shuts the door, pulls on the Grandmother’s night-cap down to his eyes, then he lies down all his length in the bed and draws the curtains. In the meantime the good Blanchette went quietly on her way, as little girls do, amusing herself here and there by picking Easter daisies, watching the little birds making their nests, and running after the butterflies which fluttered in the sunshine. At last she arrives at the door. Knock, knock. ‘Who is there?’ says the Wolf, softening his rough voice as best he can. ‘It’s me, Granny, your little Golden-hood. I’m bringing you a big piece of cake for your Sunday treat to-morrow.’ ‘Press your finger on the latch, then push and the door opens.’ ‘Why, you’ve got a cold, Granny,’ said she, coming in. ‘Ahem! a little, a little...’ replies the Wolf, pretending to cough. ‘Shut the door well, my little lamb. Put your basket on the table, and then take off your frock and come and lie down by me: you shall rest a little.’ The good child undresses, but observe this! She kept her little hood upon her head. When she saw what a figure her Granny cut in bed, the poor little thing was much surprised. ‘Oh!’ cries she, ‘how like you are to friend Wolf, Grandmother!’ ‘That’s on account of my night-cap, child,’ replies the Wolf. ‘Oh! what hairy arms you’ve got, Grandmother!’ ‘All the better to hug you, my child.’ ‘Oh! what a big tongue you’ve got, Grandmother!’ ‘All the better for answering, child.’ ‘Oh! what a mouthful of great white teeth you have, Grandmother!’ ‘That’s for crunching little children with!’ And the Wolf opened his jaws wide to swallow Blanchette. But she put down her head crying: ‘Mamma! Mamma!’ and the Wolf only caught her little hood. Thereupon, oh dear! oh dear! he draws back, crying and shaking his jaw as if he had swallowed red-hot coals. It was the little fire-coloured hood that had burnt his tongue right down his throat. The little hood, you see, was one of those magic caps that they used to have in former times, in the stories, for making oneself invisible or invulnerable. So there was the Wolf with his throat burnt, jumping off the bed and trying to find the door, howling and howling as if all the dogs in the country were at his heels.