When she came back to the well the old witch had smoked her pipe, and was sound asleep and snoring.
‘I have been all the way out to Windmill, and I could not see Friday and Little Saturday anywhere,’ cried the Little Mother, shaking the old hag roughly by the shoulder. ‘Where are they, you wicked old witch?’
‘Friday and Little Saturday came back soon after you had gone to look for them,’ said the witch, opening her eyes and yawning.
‘Where are they?’ demanded the Little Mother.
‘With Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday,’ answered the witch, knocking the ashes out of her pipe.
‘And where is Monday and the others?’
‘Upstairs,’ answered the witch.
‘Whose stairs?’ asked Betty.
‘My stairs,’ returned the witch.
‘Shall I go up your stairs and bring them?’ asked the Little Mother eagerly.