But where was the turning? It had gone. She could not see it. She peered out of her retreat.
The street, the people, everything was hidden, except just close at hand. They were enveloped in a thick, dark, steamy cloud, which covered all, except the noise. Phyllis ran first this way, then that, trying in vain to find the turning. Effie grew frightened, and began to cry, which attracted the notice of a policeman. Phyllis remembered what her father had said to Donald, so she asked, "Please will you show us the way home?"
"I don't know the name," Phyllis faltered; "it's in a street full of houses, joined on to each other all in a row, and no garden."
"Well, that isn't much help," he replied, kindly; "where might you be going to?"
"We were trying to find London," Phyllis said.
"Oh, no!" Phyllis cried, eagerly; "I mean the golden streets, and the fountains, and the palaces, and the trains, and the church you can't see the roof of, and the needle twenty men can't lift, and the golden carriages, and----"
The man burst into such a laugh that Phyllis stopped short, and stared at him angrily.
"My big brothers and sisters have gone to look at it. They are doing it now," Phyllis added.
The policeman paused a moment, and then he said, "Well, look here. That needle ain't so far off; I'll just take you to see it, and you may see your brothers and sisters too. Call out directly if you do."
So he took them each by a hand, and trotted them along through the fog. It was an alarming journey, although the policeman was kind, and Phyllis felt sure there was no other way of getting home.
When he took them across those dreadful streets, Effie in one arm, Phyllis hanging on to his other hand, Phyllis shut her eyes in terror.
But presently they got away from this confusion into a broad paved place, with trees to be seen here and there. That was much nicer. Their kind companion told Phyllis to look out for her friends.
"There's the needle," he said, all of a sudden. Phyllis looked up, and saw a great stone column before them.
"But it's a needle I mean," Phyllis exclaimed, uncomprehendingly, "something you work with. That isn't a needle."
"Well, I don't know whether a giant ever worked with it," the policeman said, with a comical smile; "anyhow, that's what they call the needle. It's come a long way to England, and belonged to a lady called Mrs. Cleopatra. What she did with it isn't exactly known; but I reckon she didn't make her gowns with it."