Jeanne was the first to pick up courage.

“Madame,” she said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I am so thirsty.  It’s with flying, I think, for we’re not accustomed to it.”

“Why did you not say so before?” said the lady.  “I can give you anything you want.  It has all been ready a long time.  Will you have snow water or milk?”

“Milk, please,” said Jeanne.

The lady looked at the cats.

“Fetch it,” she said quietly.  The cats trotted off, they opened the door as before, but left it open this time, and in another moment they returned, carrying between them a white china tray, on which were two cups of beautiful rich-looking milk.  They handed them to the children, who each took one and drank it with great satisfaction.  Then the cats took away the cups and tray, and returned and sat down as before.

The lady smiled at the children.

“Now,” she said, “are you ready?”

She had been so kind about the milk that Hugh this time took courage.

“We are very sorry,” he said, “but we really don’t understand what it is you would like us to do.”

“Do?” said the lady.  “Why, you have nothing to do but to listen.  Isn’t that what you came for?  To hear some of the stories I spin?”

The children opened their eyes—­with pleasure it is to be supposed rather than surprise—­for the white lady did not seem at all annoyed.

“Oh!” said they, both at once.  “Is that what you’re spinning?  Stories!”

“Of course,” said the lady.  “Where did you think they all come from?—­all the stories down there?” She pointed downwards in the direction of the stair and the great hall.  “Why, here I have been for—­no, it would frighten you to tell you how long, by your counting, I have been up here at my spinning.  I spin the round of the clock at this window, then I turn my wheel—­to get the light, you see—­and spin the round again at the other.  If you saw the tangle it comes to me in!  And the threads I send down!  It is not often such little people as you come up here themselves, but it does happen sometimes.  And there is plenty ready for you—­all ready for the wheel.”

“How wonderful!” said Hugh.  “And oh!” he exclaimed, “I suppose sometimes the threads get twisted again when you have to send them down such a long way, and that’s how stories get muddled sometimes.”

“Just so,” said the white lady.  “My story threads need gentle handling, and sometimes people seize them roughly and tear and soil them, and then of course they are no longer pretty.  But listen now.  What will you have?  The first in the wheel is a very, very old fairy story.  I span it for your great-great-grandmothers; shall I spin it again for you?”

“Oh, please,” said both children at once.

“Then sit down on the floor and lean your heads against my knees,” said the lady.  “Shut your eyes and listen.  That is all you have to do.  Never mind the cats, they will be quite quiet.”