Mrs Molesworth (continued 3)

They did not answer; but when Mary had passed through the two gates into the forest, where it was beginning to look quite dark and to feel very chilly, there was the basket, and the Cooies on the handle.

“You sit down on the cones,” they said; and as she did so, without questioning, she felt herself uplifted, and glancing at the wood-pigeons, she saw that their wings were outspread for full flight.

It all seemed to pass in a moment; she had not time to think to herself that she and the basket and the birds were all flying together in some wonderful way, before there came—no, it could not be called a bump, it was too gentle for that, but a sudden stop, and there they were all of them just at the little wicket-gate leading through into Dove’s Nest garden.

“Thank you, Cooies,” said Mary, feeling as if she should be out of breath, though she wasn’t, “and—and—good-bye.”

“For the present,” added Mr Coo. “But, Mary, remember, if you want to join our great gathering the day after to-morrow, there is a way for you to do so; you have only to sharpen your wits and remember some of the fairy tales.”

“There is one,” said Mrs Coo softly, “about a prince who had a wishing—”

“Hush,” said Mr Coo, “it is against the rules to give such very broad hints. But I may tell you this without any hinting at all, Mary. If you come you need only walk through the forest to the place where you found us—”

“Or you found me,” interrupted Mary.

“Where we met to-day,” he went on, “and there we shall meet you again”; and before Mary had time to say any more, the wood-pigeons were off, out of sight!

And Mary rather slowly made her way to the house, carrying the basket of fir-cones and thinking over all she had seen, and wondering what her friends meant by their curious hints.

Chapter Eleven.

“From The Islands of Gorgeous Colours.”

Miss Verity took Mary a drive again the next day. It was not as interesting as the last one—the one to Crook Edge, I mean, to see Blanche and Milly. They did not pay any visits, as Miss Verity had several messages in the little town two or three miles off, where she had to go once a week or so to the shops.

Mary went into one or two of them with her godmother, and was amused by their quaint old-fashionedness; but when it came to a call at the Post-Office, where Miss Verity had some business to see to, she told Mary she had better wait outside in the pony-carriage, as it was a bright sunny afternoon, and she was well wrapped up in her feather cloak.

So Mary sat there thinking, and I daresay you can guess what her thoughts were about. She was wondering and wondering what the wood-pigeons had meant by their hints; and just as her godmother came out again and stepped into the carriage, she had got the length of saying to herself—

“Oh, I can’t guess, and I’m tired of puzzling about it any more. I just wish—oh, how I do wish—that I could find a perfectly white feather, the whitest that ever was seen! If only one of those dear little fluffy clouds would drop down and turn into one, it would do beautifully.”

She was looking up at the sky as she thought this; it was very blue, and the scudding cloudlets were very white; and—was it fancy?—just at that moment it seemed to Mary that a little quiver went through her cloak, as if it, or something about it, had suddenly “come alive,” or as if a tiny breeze had passed through it. But no; there was no wind at all that afternoon. Miss Verity remarked as they drove home how very still it was.

Something more than a quiver ran through Mary herself when she got out of the carriage and went into the hall. It was still full daylight, and there on the table lay a letter—a foreign letter—addressed to herself; and with a thrill of delight Mary saw that the writing was her cousin Michael’s!

“Oh, godmother!” she exclaimed, “it is for me—all for myself, not just a scrap inside auntie’s, and it has come straight from—from India, is it?”

“From the West Indies, dear,” said Miss Verity. “I know his ship was to be at one of the principal islands there a short time ago. Now just throw off your cloak and run into the drawing-room and read your letter. It won’t do you any harm to keep on your other things for a few minutes.”

Mary did as her godmother said. She put down her feather cloak carefully on a seat in the hall—somehow she never felt inclined to handle it carelessly,—and ran in to read her precious letter by the fire.

Surprises were not at an end for her to-day.

As she opened the envelope and drew out its contents something fluttered down to the floor. At first sight she could not believe her eyes; she thought she was dreaming, for when she stooped to pick the little object up, she saw that it was a small feather—white, perfectly white, “as white,” thought Mary to herself, with astonished delight, “as white as snow.” She scarcely dared to touch it, but slipping it back into the envelope, she went on to read the letter. It was not a very long one, but most kind and affectionate, as Michael’s always were, and it contained one piece of news which was full of interest. Through some quite unexpected changes, her cousin wrote, it was possible, just possible, that he might be home again by Christmas, and able to be “backwards and forwards” among them all for some weeks or even months. And then he went on to explain about the feather. It had dropped at his feet, he said, from some bird passing overhead, while he was standing, idle for once, looking over the sea and thinking of home, “and of you, little Mary,” he added, “so I thought I would just slip it into my letter.”

“He has no idea how pleased I am with it,” thought Mary. “It has come just in time for me to go to the Dove Queen’s great party, and I shouldn’t wonder—no, I really shouldn’t—if it gained the prize, for I am almost sure it is a fairy feather.”

And the word fairy reminded her of what the Cooies had said, and all of a sudden another idea came into her mind.

“I do believe that was it,” she said, speaking aloud in her excitement. “Yes, it all fits in with what they said and didn’t say. The feather cloak is a fairy cloak, a ‘wishing cloak.’ It brought me home in what seemed a moment the other day, by making me fall asleep, and to-day it has brought this beautiful white feather just in time! Oh what fun and how nice! I am sure I have guessed right.”

And as if in reply, at that moment she heard, though the windows were all closed, faintly, yet distinctly, “coo-coo,” from the side of the room nearest the gate into the forest. But Mary knew it meant,—

“Yes, you have guessed right at last, Mary.”

She was in great spirits all that evening, and her godmother quite sympathised in her pleasure at having heard from Michael. And when Mary showed her the feather, Miss Verity looked at it most admiringly.

“It is a lovely feather,” she said. “I don’t think I ever saw anything, except snow, so perfectly white.” This pleased Mary very much, and made her feel still happier about her chance of the Queen Dove’s prize.

“Godmother,” she said, “may I spend to-morrow afternoon again in the forest? You don’t particularly want me to drive with you, do you?”

She could not help feeling a little anxious as to the answer, but yet—the Cooies had managed everything all right so far. She felt that she might trust them.

“No, dear,” said Miss Verity. “I do not mean to drive myself to-morrow, for I am going to send to fetch some rather large parcels from the railway station. And in any case I like you to play in the forest when you wish it. It will be fine to-morrow, too, I think, as the sun has set very red.”

“I’m so glad,” said Mary, “and thank you very much. Shall I get any more cones?” she added.

“Yes, please, as many as you can, but don’t stand about too much, so as to get chilled.”

“I almost wish,” thought Mary, as she was going to bed, “that I hadn’t reminded godmother of the fir-cones. I am so afraid of being too late for the Queen’s party. But perhaps it wouldn’t have been kind not to offer to get them. I know what I’ll do, I’ll start as early as ever I can, and run all the way to the place near the white gate—I am sure I know it now—and pick up the cones there; there are lots. So the Cooies are sure not to miss me, and if my basket is not full, they will manage to help me in some of their queer fairy ways.”

Then she thought how and where she could keep the feather safe, and secure from getting the least spotted. She decided that its old home—the inside of Michael’s letter—was as safe as anywhere, but first she tore off a little piece of the blue tissue-paper round the “fairy cloak” and folded the feather in it.

To-morrow was fine, and all went as Mary hoped. Very soon after luncheon she set off, basket on arm, to the forest. Without difficulty she found the spot where the wood-pigeons had met her the last time, and which she knew was close to the entrance to the “secret place,” and there set to work to gather cones as fast as she could.

There were plenty, but still it was rather tiring, to keep stooping for them, scarcely allowing herself a moment’s rest, and more than once she wished that the Cooies would make haste and come to her help.

She was not afraid of their forgetting her, however, she knew they would come in time, and so they did, for before her basket was more than three-quarters full she heard the slight rustle in the air and felt the little feet on her shoulders.

“There you are!” she exclaimed joyfully, “and oh, dear Cooies, do you know what I have got?” and she drew out the precious feather.

Whether they had known about it or not, she could not tell, for they said nothing in reply to her question. They just hopped down and looked at her basket, their heads on one side.

“It is time to be going in,” they said. “All the others are in their bowers, getting ready.”

“But my cones,” said Mary. “The basket is not nearly full, and I shouldn’t like godmother to think I had got fewer this time.”

The wood-pigeons looked up—not to the sky, but to the nearest fir-trees. And two or three cones dropped—straight into the basket.

“It will be quite full when you come back again,” they said.

And Mary, wondering, but feeling it better to ask no more questions, followed them down the little path and through the two gates, both of which this time stood open. And when they first entered into the great, leafy hall, for a minute or two it seemed as deserted as the last time. But only for a minute or two.

“Sit down,” said the Cooies, very softly. “There is your place. They are all coming, and the rush may make you feel giddy.”

Then Mary saw in front of her a little mossy bank—large enough for herself and another child, perhaps. She sat down—something made her sit quite in the middle, and on each side of her, greatly to her satisfaction, for she was feeling rather shy and even a tiny atom frightened, her two friends settled themselves.

Not a moment too soon. There came such a rush through the air that she could have fancied a great wind had suddenly burst into the peaceful place, and round her, above, on every side, such a whizz and flutter of wings as would, it seemed to her, have whirled her down had she been standing upright and unprepared for them, and for a moment Mary closed her eyes.

Then the rush quieted down, and when Mary looked up again she saw a wonderful sight. Clusters and clusters of birds, on branches all round the great arbour—so many that the greenery was almost hidden. But they were all in order. As her eyes grew accustomed to them, she noticed that no two clusters were quite alike, either in size or colour or shape; they were all a little different, and then she understood that each “family” of her own Cooies’ numerous relations kept itself distinct, though all were evidently on most friendly terms, and her own two wood-pigeons seemed to have a specially important position, which pleased her to see.

But the principal personage of the day was yet to make her appearance, and the kind of hush and expectation which followed the rush of the innumerable little wings told its own tale to Mary. She sat, almost holding her breath.

Eight in front of her, though at some little distance, was a pillar or pedestal, perfectly covered with moss of an even more beautiful green than that of the beautiful exquisitely fine grass at her feet. And as Mary kept her eyes fixed on this pillar—something told her to do so—at last what they were all, the child and the hundreds of birds, waiting for, came. How it came, she could never tell. There was a movement, not as loud as a rustle even, just a movement in the air, and then—on the top of the pillar she saw the loveliest thing she had ever seen in her life. A large white dove—so white, so beautiful; and as the lovely creature slightly turned her snowy neck, Mary caught a moment’s gleam of something golden, like a thread of vivid sunshine, more than gold, if you can picture such a thing to yourselves.

It was Blanche’s dove—Mary felt sure of it now.

Then the queenly bird spoke. Her voice was like music—whether the words that came to Mary’s ears would have sounded to others like murmuring “coo-coo” only, or not, I cannot say, and it does not matter, for the little human guest understood.

“The procession may pass,” said the Queen.

Then from every cluster two birds detached themselves, all meeting together behind Mary’s seat. And in another moment, reminding her a little of a long line of tiny choristers that she had once seen in a great cathedral, they appeared two by two—fifty couples or more—and passing forward, each pair stopped in front of the Queen and laid down a feather at the foot of her pillar. White feathers they all were.

It was so pretty—the birds’ perfect order and slow movement—the Queen’s stately beauty—that Mary forgot for a moment that she herself was to take any part in the ceremony, till a little peck on her cheek told her that the right-hand Cooie was calling her to attention.

“It is your turn now,” he whispered. “Draw out your feather. We will lead the way.”

And they did so, Mary following, the precious feather in her hand, till at the foot of what to herself she had begun to call “the throne,” she felt she should stop, and with the prettiest curtsey she could make, she laid her treasure down, a very little in front of the long row already there, and then, still guided by the two wood-pigeons, made her way back to her place, where, however, she did not sit down again, but remained standing, her heart beating rather fast, for even in the instant’s glimpse of the others that she had had, it seemed to her that hers was the whitest!

The Queen flew down from her pillar, and passed slowly along the front, looking carefully at the feathers. Then she bent down and picked one up in her beak and flew back with it. Mary shut her eyes for a moment, afraid to look, but when she opened them again and dared to glance before her, she saw that her hopes had been well-founded—Michael’s gift was no longer where she had laid it.

And there stood the Queen, the quill of the feather in her beak, so that the rest of it lay across her own snowy plumage, not snowier than it, however. She was quite silent for a minute, as if she wanted them all to see for themselves, and then came again the beautiful tones of her voice.

“This feather,” she said, “has won the prize. It has come from the islands across the sea—the islands of gorgeous colours and rich fragrance—this simple snow-white feather. Our human guest, Mary, our child-visitor, has brought it, and you see for yourselves that it has won the prize. It is the whitest of them all,” and she bent her head towards the feathers on the ground, “beautiful as they are.”

Then there came a great wave through the air; a murmur of many voices, which sounded like one solitary note on some strange soft organ: then silence again, till again Queen White Dove spoke.

“I see you all agree with me,” she said, “and I think you are generous and kind. For there is one thing to be said still, before the prize is given. You, my birds and relations, have been for many weeks seeking to win the prize: you have worked for it; you have travelled far, many of you. But Mary has not needed to do any of these things. Her feather came to her without any effort on her part—”

“Never say roast larks don’t drop into some people’s mouths,” whispered Mr Coo, who by this time was perched on his old place on Mary’s shoulder. Mary gave a little shrug, but he clung on all the same.

“And therefore,” continued the Queen, “I think it is only fair that a short trial and test should be laid upon her.”

Mary began to feel rather frightened. What was the Queen going to do? Turn her into a wood-pigeon perhaps, or something of the kind. But such fears were soon laid at rest.

“It is not a severe test,” the Queen continued, and Mary felt that she was now speaking to herself directly, and that her tone was very gracious. “It is this. For one week you must keep the feather as spotless as it is now, and if at the end of that time you bring it here again—perfect and unsullied—you will have gained the prize. Do you agree?” Mary hesitated. She felt somehow a little confused. Mr Coo gave her an invisible peck.

“Say ‘Yes, I will,’” he murmured.

“I do, you mean,” whispered Mary, rather pleased to snub him. And she made another curtsey, and said in a clear voice,—

“I do.”

“Then come forward,” and Mary did so, till she was close to the pillar, on which Queen White Dove was again standing. It was not much higher than Mary herself. The Queen raised one dainty claw, and taking the end of the feather from her beak, she placed it just inside the brim of Mary’s close-fitting fur hat, or cap, where the grey feather had been on the day of Mary’s first visit to the “forest’s secret.”

“It is safe and firm,” she said. “It will be by your own fault, Mary, if it drops out or is in any way spoilt.”

And Mary curtseyed for the third time, murmuring thanks, and went back to her place, wondering to herself what was going to happen next.

The two wood-pigeons were there as before.

“We are all about to disperse,” they said. “Lie down and close your eyes for a moment, till the rush is over.”

She did so, and again came the great noise of wings, and—when she looked up, reassured by the silence, she was half-sitting, half-lying at the gate of her godmother’s garden, the basket, well filled with cones, beside her, and the two Cooies perched on it!

And just then, Pleasance came out of the house and rang the big bell.

Chapter Twelve.

“Come Back in the Spring, Mary.”

Mary sprang up. She had been half-sitting on the little gate, for the surprise of finding herself at home again so quickly had almost taken away her breath. But the wood-pigeons calmed her down.

“You need not hurry,” they said. “Pleasance never expects you for ten minutes or longer after she has rung. Sit down on the basket and we will keep you warm.”

And when Mary had done so, they flew on to her shoulders and spread out their little wings as if ready for flight, and Mary felt a nice soft glow of heat going through her.

“Now,” they continued, “we can talk comfortably—do you want to ask us anything?”

“Of course I do,” said Mary. “A great big thing. I want to know how I can keep my feather perfectly white.”

“The Queen told you almost as much as we can,” was the reply. “She said it would be your own fault if it dropped out or got spoilt in any way.”

“I know she did,” said Mary, “but that’s very puzzling. I can’t go about with my hand to my head holding it in.”

“You don’t need to do so. As the Queen spoke of ‘fault’—‘your own fault’”—said Mr Coo, “I would advise you to think over what is most likely to be a fault of yours.”

“I know,” said Mary quickly. “Hasty temper—that’s my worst fault. Auntie always says so. But sometimes when I’ve been very unhappy about it, she has said any way it doesn’t last long; she has said it to comfort me, you see, and it’s true—I scarcely ever feel cross with anybody for more than a minute.”

“A minute may leave many minutes of trouble behind it,” said Mrs Coo, gently.

“I know that,” said Mary. “Once at home poor baby got a knock that was black and blue for a week, just because we’d given him a little push to get him out of the way.”

“Then be on your guard,” the wood-pigeons replied, “and this day week come to the meeting-place in the forest again, at the same time. You will have no difficulty.”

“And shall I not see you till then?” asked Mary, rather dolefully, “a whole week?”

But she was speaking to the air! Her Cooies had disappeared.

“A whole week,” however, sometimes passes very quickly, though sometimes, it is true, a week seems to have leaden wings. This time it was not so. Miss Verity was more than kind in her ways of interesting and amusing her little god-daughter; so that even though the weather grew dull, and rainy, and disagreeable, and it was scarcely possible to go out, either driving or walking, Mary was happy and bright. The only thing that she felt uneasy about was as to the appointed day for her visit to the secret of the forest.

“If it should be a regular bad day,” she said to herself, “godmother will certainly not let me go out, and it would seem silly of me to expect it.”

But she wisely consoled herself by remembering that, so far, nothing that had to do with the wood-pigeons had gone wrong. And as it was a “fairy” matter, she might safely leave it in fairy hands!

“Or in fairy beaks and claws,” she added, laughingly, to herself, “as my fairies are all birds.”

And her trust was well-founded. For the day before the day there came a complete change in the weather. There was a change of moon, Pleasance told her, but, however that may have been, there was a great improvement in out-of-doors things. It grew colder, certainly, but bright, and clear, and bracing; the sort of weather that healthy children love, and indoors plenty of good fires kept away all fear of colds, and chilblains, and miseries of that kind.

Mary was delighted; both because she was so glad to get out again, and also to have her fears about the important day dispelled. For it was not now likely, indeed almost impossible, that the weather should change again for some little time to come.

“What a good thing it is that I have got all my Christmas presents finished before this nice frost began, isn’t it?” she said to Pleasance, as she was dressing to go out, that first fine day. For one of her godmother’s ways of interesting and amusing her in the house had been to give her some charming scraps and patches of silks and satin, besides other odds and ends of pretty cord and fringe and such things, with which Miss Verity had helped her to make sweet and dainty little pincushions and pen-wipers and so on to take home with her.

“Yes, indeed it is, Miss,” said the maid. She was taking Mary’s jacket, and cap, and fur boa, and thick gloves out, for she was very afraid of her catching cold, as this was the most wintry weather there had been during the little girl’s visit to Dove’s Nest. “Miss Mary,” she went on, “why do you keep this one tiny white feather in your cap? It looks quite out of place, stuck into the brim all by itself, and if you care for it, it would be much safer in your work-box or your writing-case.”

She had the cap in her hand as she spoke, and seemed, or at least Mary thought so, on the point of taking out the feather. But before there was time for anything more, Mary darted forward, tore the cap out of the maid’s hand, turning upon her almost fiercely.

“Don’t touch it,” she cried, “if you—” but the words died upon her lips, for as she spoke the cap fell to the ground in the sort of little struggle there had been, as poor Pleasance, not really understanding what Mary meant, had kept her hold for a moment or two. The cap fell to the ground—unluckily they were standing close to the fire-place—and when Mary stooped to pick it up she saw that the feather had dropped out, and lay where it had fallen, just within the fender. The fire was not yet lighted, but there must have been a little coal or cinder dust about, for when Mary, scarcely daring to breathe, stooped again for her treasure, she saw that the mischief was done—a black or grey spot now sullied the feather’s perfect whiteness.

And, without a word of explanation to Pleasance, who stood there in half-stupefied astonishment, the little girl burst into tears.

“Miss Mary!” she exclaimed at last; “my dear, I am so sorry. I had no idea that you cared about the feather so much. I can get you another like it, I daresay, or very likely the spot will rub off,” and she held out her hand for it.

“Oh no, no,” sobbed Mary, “you could never get another like it—never; and I am sure the spot won’t rub off.”

All the same, she drew out her handkerchief and tried with great care what she could do. But in vain; the poor feather’s perfect spotlessness was gone.

“It was my own fault—all my own fault,” murmured Mary to herself, “that is why it won’t rub off. Oh dear, oh dear! Just at the last.”

And though after a while she dried her eyes and tried to look as usual, telling Pleasance she was sorry she had been so cross, she looked a very unhappy little girl when at last she set off for a walk, leaving the feather in its first home—the inside of Michael’s letter, which was lying on the table.

She would not, she felt she could not, go to the forest, and it was getting late. The misfortune to the feather and her own crying had wasted time, the finest part of the afternoon was over already. So she went out at the front gate and trotted down the road, in a kind of “duty” way that was very dull and depressing. The sky and the look of things in general seemed to have caught her sadness, for there was a dark blue-grey look in one direction which cast a strange kind of shadow over all, and every trace of sunshine had gone.

Miss Verity had driven out by herself that afternoon, to see the old lady-friend who lived at some distance, and who, she had heard, was more ill and weak than usual, and it suddenly struck Mary that if she walked on much farther she might meet her godmother coming home. She did not wish this, as she felt sure that her eyes were still red and swollen, and she did not want to be asked, even by kind Miss Verity, “what she had been crying about.”

So she turned and walked home again, without any adventure except passing two country people, who were saying to each other that it was blowing up for snow.

“Not to-night,” said one, “nor yet to-morrow morning, but it’s on the way all the same.”

“That will be the end of it, I daresay,” thought Mary. “If there is a snow-storm, godmother of course will not let me go out to-morrow, and everything will be over.”

For deep down in her heart there was still a sort of hope, that if she could get to the secret of the forest the next day at the appointed time, somehow, things might yet be put right. Perhaps the beautiful dove, when she saw how dreadfully sorry she was, would give her another trial, or tell her of some magic way of cleaning the feather? at worst Mary felt that she would be able to explain how it had happened; anything would be better than her not seeing her dear bird friends again, which might easily happen if to-morrow were impossible for her, as the time for her returning to her aunt’s was fast drawing near.

Miss Verity seemed a little sad and anxious herself when she came home that evening, and if she did notice Mary’s still rather swollen eyes, and face whiter than usual, she said nothing.

But when the little girl had bidden her good-night and was going off to bed, she called her back again.

“Mary, dear,” she said, “can you manage to amuse yourself again to-morrow afternoon? My kind old friend is not at all well, not able to leave her room, and rather lonely and dull, and she begged me to go to her if I possibly could?”

Mary’s face brightened.

“Of course I can,” she replied, “if only—oh, godmother, do you think I can go to the forest?”

“Why not?”

“I heard some people on the road say that it was going to snow, by to-morrow afternoon, certainly.”

“Well, what then?” said Miss Verity, smiling. “It may snow without being a snow-storm. And that will not be just yet. I know the signs of the weather here pretty well by this time, my dear.”

So Mary went to sleep with a lighter heart.

And her godmother was right. It was cold the next day, it is true, but not very cold, nor very gloomy; nothing to prevent the little girl’s setting off in good time to the spot where she usually met the Cooies. But how slowly and sadly she made her way there. She could scarcely help crying again, as she looked at the poor feather she carried in her hand—not wrapped up, what was the use of wrapping it up now?—instead of in its former place in spotless whiteness on the front of her cap. Indeed more than once she felt on the point of turning back altogether, and when she got near the entrance to the hidden path she stood still, feeling as if she could not bear to see the two wood-pigeons.

Just then something cold fell on her face; she looked up; there it was again—yes, it was snowing, after all, though not much. A few flakes, that was all—and a ray of wintry sunshine came out as she glanced upwards, so there was not much fear of any great fall. Nor did Mary mind now.

“The Cooies will take me safe home, I am sure,” she said to herself. “They’ll take care of me, I know, even if they are very vexed with me.”

They were not to be seen as yet, however, so Mary made her way along the little path to the white gate, which, as she half expected, stood open. So was the inner one, and in another moment she found herself inside the great arbour hall. And though there was complete silence, a glance showed her that it was quite full—all the birds were there in their places, waiting for the Queen, and—for her. Her own wood-pigeons perched one on each side of the green bench.

“You are late,” they murmured, as she took her place.

“Oh Cooies,” she whispered in reply, “it doesn’t matter. I am so unhappy. I was nearly not coming at all, only then you would have thought I had broken my promise, and perhaps I should never have seen you again.”

“It was better to come,” said Mr Coo, “but—hush!”

The Queen had alighted—where from, Mary could not see, but there she was, on the green pillar, as before, and it scarcely needed the sound of the lovely voice calling her, for the little girl to know that she was summoned.

“Have you proved worthy of the prize,” the Queen asked, when Mary had curtseyed low and stood waiting, the feather in her hand.

“No,” she said in a low voice, choking back her tears, and then she told what had happened.

“Give me the feather,” said the Queen.

Mary did so, but even in the moment of holding it up it seemed to her—what was it?—the feather looked a little different, and a curious thrill of hope passed through her.

Then the Queen spoke again, and soft though her voice was, it was very clear. Every bird in the great arbour heard what she said.

“Mary,” she began, “you are a very fortunate child. The winter spirits, the snow-fairies, have taken you into favour. See—a flake has fallen on your feather, a fairy flake, for even the warmth of our bower has not melted it, and nothing ever will. Your feather is again spotless, and the snowflake has added a silvery glistening to its whiteness. As the winter spirits have thus favoured you, no one may dispute that you have won the prize; before another day has passed you will receive it. A golden chain will encircle your neck. Farewell for the present, happy Mary.”

And as she bent her beautiful head, the gleam of the wonderful thread of sunshine round her own neck flashed on Mary’s eyes.

She took the feather from the Queen, and almost breathless with delight, began to thank her. But a great sound drowned her first words. It was a sound she had heard before—the rushing of countless little wings—but this time it was still louder. Mary turned her head to see; yes, that was it, but the birds were still in their places, they were not flying away, though all their wings were in motion. And when she glanced round again, the Queen had disappeared.

“What—” she was beginning to ask, but before she could say more Mr Coo interrupted her.

“They are clapping their wings to congratulate you and wish you joy,” he said. “Make a curtsey to them; they will understand.”

So Mary turned towards them and curtseyed in her prettiest manner, though she felt rather shy, and then, taking this as her farewell, the great flight of birds rose—in every direction the air seemed full of them, and again, as had been the case before, the rush and flutter made her feel confused and giddy. But her own Cooies were perched on her shoulders.

“Shut your eyes and count eleven slowly,” one, or both of them whispered; “then it will be all right, you will see.”

Mary did so: before she got to “eleven” she had become rather sleepy, and began to dream that she was the little sister in the fairy story of the Eleven White Swans, and that it was their wings she heard; then something touched her cheek, and she started and opened her eyes, and, she was standing at the gate leading into her godmother’s garden, the two wood-pigeons on the path in front of her, looking up at her!

“Oh Cooies,” she exclaimed, half-laughing, “you have brought me back quickly this time. How did you do it?”

“Never mind about that,” they replied. “Here you are all safe and sound.”

But it seemed to her that their voices were rather sad.

“Is anything the matter?” she asked.

Their heads were both very much on one side.

“No,” was the reply, “it is all quite right. Only saying good-bye is always rather sad.”

“Saying good-bye,” Mary repeated.

“Not for always. Come back in the spring, Mary. Run in now, but come back in the spring,” and then in an instant they were up in the air, ever, ever so high, and Mary was standing there alone, Michael’s feather still in her hand, and from above there came the “coo-coo” she had learnt to know so well, and the echo of the last words, “come back in the spring, Mary.”

Feeling rather strange, almost as if she were going to cry, Mary crossed the little lawn to the house. And just as she got to the door she met Pleasance coming out with the big bell in her hand.

“Oh, Miss Mary,” she said, “I am so glad you have come back. I was just going to the gate to ring. But it is getting so dark and chilly already, I am glad you came home earlier, and so will Miss Verity be.”

She was right. Mary’s godmother drove in a few minutes later, and her first words to the little girl were the same as her maid’s.

Miss Verity was rather silent that evening, though as kind as ever. She seemed to have a good deal to think of.

And the next morning there were several letters for her, which she read carefully.

After breakfast she called Mary into the drawing-room.

“I think, dear,” she said, “we will not have any lessons to-day. I have two or three things to tell you—one, rather sad, at least to me it is so, and I fancy you will feel the same about it. And two or three pleasant things—which will you have first?” Mary considered.

“The sad one,” she replied, “and then the others will make me feel happy again.”

Miss Verity smiled, and then Mary noticed that she was holding a small packet in her hand.

“After all, it is nothing so very bad,” she said. “It is only, dear, that your visit must come to an end a few days sooner than I had hoped.”

“I believe the Cooies knew it,” thought Mary to herself.

“My old friend,” continued her godmother, “whom I have been to see several times lately, is failing fast. She is feeling lonely too, and has begged me to go to stay with her for some weeks as soon as possible. I have promised to do so the day after to-morrow, so to-morrow, dear, Pleasance will take you home. I have a letter from your aunt, saying they will be very happy to have you back, but—this is the first of the pleasant things, she promises that I shall have you again in the spring. And you will be glad to hear that it is really quite settled that Michael will be home for Christmas.”

“Oh, I am glad!” exclaimed Mary.

“And another nice thing is that Blanche and Milly are going to be your neighbours in the Square.” Mary’s face brightened still more.

“Blanche and her husband have taken a house there, and Milly will live with them, and be a nice companion for you. They hope to see you very often. Thirdly, I have a rather curious nice thing to tell you and to show you,” and Mary somehow felt sure it had to do with the little parcel.

“Last night,” continued her godmother, “thinking of your leaving, I opened the drawer in my old cabinet where I keep the feather mantle, and where I will again lay it away till I lend it to you some other time. I meant to tell Pleasance to put fresh paper and lavender in the drawer, if they were needed, and as I was looking in, I noticed a little piece of crumpled paper, as I thought, in one corner. I picked it up, and fortunately began to smooth it out, before throwing it away. And—look, dear, what was in it.”

She held out the paper packet, which she had unfolded, and there lay a little coil of gold, so fine and thin, it was like a thread of sparkling silk. It was a very delicately made, but strong, nevertheless, gold chain for the neck, clasped by one pure white pearl, which, as soon as Mary saw it, made her think of Queen White Dove.

“Oh!” she murmured breathlessly, “how lovely!”

“Yes,” said her godmother, “and it is for you, dear. How it came there, I cannot exactly say, but I feel sure it must have dropped out of the pocket of the feather mantle, where it may have lain for nearly half a century. I was never allowed to wear the mantle except a very few times, on great occasions, and it got too small for me before long. And,” here Miss Verity’s face and voice grew rather dreamy, “I have a faint, very faint remembrance of something my mother said about a chain lost on its way here from the place where the mantle came from. This chain is certainly of foreign make; it might really be a fairy one, so strong, though so fine.”

She clasped it round Mary’s neck as she spoke.

“Yes,” she said, “it fits you perfectly. I felt sure it would. I should like you always to wear it.”

“I will,” said Mary, and she held up her face to kiss her godmother.

So it was a happy little Mary who went back that day to the friends in the Square, happy to have her again.

For though there was no wood-pigeons’ nest in the gardens, there was the thought in her heart of seeing her Cooies again “in the spring.”

And when Michael came home she showed him his feather, safe in its old place—the inside of his letter—in her little writing-case.

“It is a pretty feather,” he said, “it has such a nice sparkle on it too.”

Mary smiled. She had her own little secrets, you see!

The End.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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