‘The blood would come through,’ howled the witch.
‘Then, what shall I do to get up your stairs?’ said the Little Mother, with a cry of despair.
‘Fly up!’ cackled the old hag.
‘But I can’t fly without wings,’ wailed Betty.
‘Get wings,’ cried the witch, with a sneer.
‘How can I?’ asked the poor Little Mother helplessly.
‘I leave that to your clever wits to find out!’ snapped the witch. ‘And let me tell you that until you can fly you will never see Monday and your five other children again, nor get them out of my clutches!’ And with a ‘Ha! ha!’ and a ‘He! he!’ the witch pulled her petticoats round her and disappeared under the dark waters of the well.
‘My dear life!’ ejaculated Betty, now really frightened. ‘I believe that old woman who played the game with us was a real witch, and wasn’t pretending at all, and has really and truly taken Monday, Tuesday, and all the others away.’ And she sped away down to the quay where she lived with her terrible news.
‘“Fly up!” cackled the old hag.’