me.'
'Indeed I will, ma'am,' said Curdie.

'That is for me to find out,' she rejoined, with yet another
strange smile. 'in the meantime all I can say is, come to me again
when you find yourself in any trouble, and I will see what I can do
for you - only the canning depends on yourself. I am greatly
pleased with you for bringing me my pigeon, doing your best to set
right what you had set wrong.'

As she spoke she held out her hand to him, and when he took it she
made use of his to help herself up from her stool, and - when or
how it came about, Curdie could not tell - the same instant she
stood before him a tall, strong woman - plainly very old, but as
grand as she was old, and only rather severe-looking. Every trace
of the decrepitude and witheredness she showed as she hovered like
a film about her wheel, had vanished. Her hair was very white, but
it hung about her head in great plenty, and shone like silver in
the moonlight. Straight as a pillar she stood before the
astonished boy, and the wounded bird had now spread out both its
wings across her bosom, like some great mystical ornament of
frosted silver.

'Oh, now I can never forget you!' cried Curdie. 'I see now what
you really are!'

'Did I not tell you the truth when I sat at my wheel?' said the old
lady.

'Yes, ma'am,' answered Curdie.