When the door of the tower was as wide open as it could go, the thrush gave three flaps of its wings, and then it flew out of the tree, and in through the doorway of the tower, up and up the witch's stairs. And at the top of the stairs was a small room, where six little maids sat spinning.
They were so busy, and the hum of the wheels was so loud, that none of them noticed the entrance of the grey-bird until it broke into a song from the window-sill.
'Why, it is a dear little thrush!' cried Friday, who was the first to notice it. 'How ever did it get up here? It must be the bird we heard singing so beautifully outside just now;' and all the children stopped their spinning-wheels to look at it.
'Did it really fly up the witch's stairs?' asked Thursday, resting her sad, soft eyes on the thrush, whose heart was beating so against its speckled breast at the sight of those dear little maids that it couldn't tell them at first who it was.
'It did,' answered Monday, 'and its flying up here makes me think of our Little Mother Betty, who played the game with us. Will she ever be able to fly up the witch's stairs, I wonder?'
'I am afraid not,' said one of the other children, with a sigh. 'I have given up all hope of her ever doing that now.'
'You are wrong, my dears,' cried the thrush, finding its voice at last. 'I am Mother Betty, turned into a dinky bird for your sakes, and have flown up the witch's stairs!'
And it flapped its wings, jerked its tail, and behaved altogether in a most extraordinary manner, for the children's faces of amazement and hope nearly sent it mad with joy. And then, as if it must relieve its feelings still more, it burst into a most enchanting song, which was answered outside the tower by a series of joyful barks from Pincher, the witch's dog.
'It must be Little Mother Betty,' said Monday, leaving her spinning-wheel. 'I can hear her own voice in the song.'
Then all the other little maids left their wheels to gaze at the bird.
'Are you really Betty who played the "Witch in the Well" with us that terrible day?' they asked.
'Indeed I am,' sang the thrush. 'I have come to take you away from here. Now follow me down the stairs and out of the house.'
'The stairs are so steep,' began Saturday, with frightened eyes.