Having watched every turn to the very last, he still knew quite
well in what direction he must go to find it, so he left the stair
and went down a passage that led, if not exactly toward it, yet
nearer it. This passage was rather dark, for it was very long,
with only one window at the end, and although there were doors on
both sides of it, they were all shut. At the distant window
glimmered the chill east, with a few feeble stars in it, and its
like was dreary and old, growing brown, and looking as if it were
thinking about the day that was just gone. Presently he turned
into another passage, which also had a window at the end of it; and
in at that window shone all that was left of the sunset, just a few
ashes, with here and there a little touch of warmth: it was nearly
as sad as the east, only there was one difference - it was very
plainly thinking of tomorrow.

But at present Curdie had nothing to do with today or tomorrow; his
business was with the bird, and the tower where dwelt the grand old
princess to whom it belonged. So he kept on his way, still
eastward, and came to yet another passage, which brought him to a
door. He was afraid to open it without first knocking. He
knocked, but heard no answer. He was answered nevertheless; for
the door gently opened, and there was a narrow stair - and so steep
that, big lad as he was, he, too, like the Princess Irene before
him, found his hands needful for the climbing. And it was a long
climb, but he reached the top at last - a little landing, with a
door in front and one on each side. Which should he knock at?

As he hesitated, he heard the noise of a spinning wheel. He knew
it at once, because his mother's spinning wheel had been his
governess long ago, and still taught him things. It was the