Mrs Molesworth

"The Wood-Pigeons and Mary"

Chapter One.

“Such Big Tears.”

“Mary is crying,” said Mr Coo.

“No!” replied Mrs Coo.

But Mr Coo said again—

“Mary is crying,” and though Mrs Coo repeated—

“No!” she knew by the way he held his head on one side and looked at her, that he was very much in earnest indeed.

I must tell you that when Mrs Coo said ‘no,’ it went off into a soft sound that was almost like ‘coo’; indeed most of her talking, and of Mr Coo’s too, sounded like that, which is the reason, I daresay, that many people would not have understood their conversation. But it would be rather tiresome to write “no,” or other words, with double o’s at the end, so I will leave it to be fancied, which will do just as well. There is a great deal of conversation in the world which careless people don’t understand; a great deal which no one can understand properly, however much they try; but also a great deal that one can get to understand, if one tries, even without the gift which the dear fairy bestowed on the very lucky prince in the long ago story. I forget his name, but I daresay some of you remember it. The gift was the power to understand all that the beasts and birds say.

This very morning the wind has been talking to me a good deal—it was the south wind, and her stories are always very sweet, though sometimes sad, yet I understand a good deal of them.

After this second “No,” Mr and Mrs Coo sat looking at each other for a moment or two, without speaking.

Then said Mr Coo—

“It must be something—serious. For Mary scarcely ever cries.”

“True,” said Mrs Coo, “true.”

But she did not say anything more, only she too held her head on one side and kept her reddy-brown eyes fixed on Mr Coo. They seemed to ask, “What is to be done?” only as she nearly always depended on Mr Coo for settling what was to be done or if anything was to be done, she did not need to say the words.

“Mary scarcely ever cries,” he repeated. “There were large drops, quite large ones on her cheeks.”

“As large as raindrops?” asked Mrs Coo.

“Larger—that is to say as large as large raindrops—the kind that come when it thunders,” said Mr Coo.

“Oh dear,” sighed Mrs Coo, thinking to herself that Mary’s trouble must be a very bad one indeed if her tears were so large. She wanted very much for once, to ask what could be done, but she saw that Mr Coo was considering very deeply, so she did not interrupt his thoughts.

At last he turned to her.

“I heard something,” he said. “Very little, but enough to help me to put two and two together.”

“To make four,” said Mrs Coo quickly. She felt rather proud of her arithmetic, though she did not understand what Mr Coo could mean, as she had never heard the saying before. “Four what, my dear?”

“Four nothing,” was the reply—rather a cross one. “It is an expression. You are not as used to human talk as I am, you see,” he went on more amiably, for it is not the way with the Coo family ever to be cross for more than a moment, and if ever they are, they are sorry immediately. “Never mind about the two and two. What I heard was only a few words, but it has decided me that I must hear more, for,” and here Mr Coo’s tone grew very solemn, “it had to do with us!”

Mrs Coo was so startled that she repeated Mr Coo’s words, which was one of the few things that tried his temper.

“It had to do with us,” she said. “How could that be? We have never done anything that could make Mary cry, especially such very large tears.”

“Yes,” said Mr Coo, “we have done one thing. We have left the Square Gardens.”

“But that was some time ago,” said Mrs Coo, “and she did not cry when very sweetly.”

Mr Coo gave what was for him a little cough—a sort of “h’m.”

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I have never felt perfectly sure that she understood my explanation that day. Still, you are right so far. I have seen her several times since then, and though she was putting her head out of the window as far as she dared, and looking towards our tree, where the nest is already falling to pieces, she was certainly not crying.”

“Perhaps she saw you yourself, and felt sure we had not really left for good?”

“No,” said Mr Coo, “she did not see me the day she put her head so far out of the window. I was watching her, for I was a little afraid she might already be missing us. But she only looked at the tree and seemed quite happy.”

“Is it since then that the nest has fallen to pieces, do you think, Mr Coo?” asked Mrs Coo.

She was rather a clever little wood-pigeon after all, though Mr Coo scarcely thought so.

“Yes,” he replied. “There was a great deal of wind last night and the night before—I fancy the wind blew it down. This morning there is almost nothing to be seen of it.”

“Then that was why Mary was crying,” exclaimed Mrs Coo.

But again Mr Coo shook his head, or at least turned it to the other side, which meant that he did not agree with Mrs Coo.

“That would not explain the words I heard,” he said.

“What were they?”

“She was crying,” Mr Coo replied, “crying and leaning against the window, and the window was open, and I heard her say, ‘He doesn’t believe me, he doesn’t believe me. It’s too bad of the Cooies—’ she calls us the Cooies, you know, my dear.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Coo, nodding her head gently, “I know.”

“It’s too bad of the Cooies,” she said again, Mr Coo went on. ”‘I believe they’re not Cooies at all, but very unkind, tricky fairies.’ She said that—she really did.”

“Dear, dear, it’s very sad, very sad indeed,” said Mrs Coo, and her voice was exceedingly low and mournful. “Mary to think that of us. Something must be done, Mr Coo, something must be done.”

“Of course it must,” he agreed. “I must go back then this very afternoon and try to see her and find out all about the trouble.”

“Shall I come too?” asked Mrs Coo.

“Certainly, if you like,” said Mr Coo.

In his heart, he was very pleased to have her company, but he was not very fond of allowing that he was not quite able to manage everything by himself.

“Certainly, if you like,” he repeated, “but just as you choose.”

“Then I think I will come,” she said. “For one thing, Mary will be pleased to see both of us together, I feel sure, and perhaps it may be easier to catch her eyes if we are both there. We can fly about a little just in front of her window as we used to do, and call out to each other. But I hope she will not be crying—at least not such very large tears. It would be almost too much for my feelings,” and she gave a deep sigh—a real sigh, though it sounded like a very soft and melancholy “coo.”

So, rather late that afternoon, the two wood-pigeons set off. It was a pretty long fly to the square where Mary lived, but they thought it better not to go earlier, for as it was now autumn and the days were beginning to get shorter, they knew that the children went out for their second walk soon after their dinner, so as to come in before it got chilly.

And very often just about the time they planned to reach the Square gardens, they had seen Mary at her own window, where she used to stand looking out, after taking off her hat and jacket, and while waiting to be called to tea.

Mary loved the window of her room. It looked out to the back of the house, for the gardens I am speaking of were not those in the middle of the square in front, but much prettier ones, stretching along between one side of Mary’s Square, and one side of another Square, whose houses also looked out on them from the back. Mary knew every tree and bush that grew near her house. She used to watch them all the year round, and could tell exactly about what time the leaves began to fade and drop off, and about when the pretty new spring ones first showed, growing a little greener and brighter every day till the trees had all their summer clothes on again. She got to know when the spring was in a lazy mood, and when the autumn was in too great a hurry to come, so that her uncle used sometimes to call her his little “weather prophet.” And if she had been clever at drawing, which I am afraid she was not particularly, she could have sketched the shapes and branches of her favourite trees from memory; so well did she know how they looked when quite bare, and how they looked when in full dress, and how the steady old evergreen ones, who never vary much, hold themselves.

Her ‘favouritest’ tree was one that kept its leaves longer, and strange to say, got its new ones earlier, than any of the others. I cannot tell you what kind of tree it was. I am not sure if Mary herself knew its name. She called it in her own mind the “fairy tree,” but she did not tell any one this, as she would have been afraid of being laughed at.

But her great reason for liking this tree best of any, you can perhaps already guess.

It was—or had been—the home of the dear wood-pigeons—the Cooies!

Ah—the “had been” makes a great difference. It was their home no longer.

Was that then what Mary was crying about the day Mr Coo saw her and felt so distressed about her?

No, not exactly that.

She had not quite understood Mr Coo’s long speech, in which he told her they were going to flit for good. She had only thought he was singing a “cooie” song to her extra sweetly, because they were going away for a day or two, as she had known them do before—for a little change, she supposed, now that the young Cooies were all hatched and fledged and able to look after themselves—“grown-up and out in the world.” Next year no doubt there would be eggs in the nest again to hatch and take care of—eggs and then fledglings—a weary business it must be, Mary thought, though happily Mrs Coo did not seem to think so, nor Mr Coo either, as he sat on a branch talking to her while she stayed so patiently and contentedly in the nest, and their soft voices sounded sweetly through the spring air, in at Mary’s window, where she never forgot to stand morning and evening to nod and smile to her little friends, and even to talk sometimes when Mr Coo hopped up to a still nearer bough.

No, it was not exactly about the Cooies having gone that Mary was crying so piteously that day. She still thought they would come back again before long, though certainly they had never been away for so many days together as this time, which made her begin to feel rather less sure of their returning, and when she came in from her walk that afternoon and stood at the window looking out, a sad fear stole over her that perhaps they would never come back again at all.

Suddenly a faint sound made her start. She had just begun saying to herself again the same words which Mr Coo had overheard, and which had so hurt his feelings as well as Mrs Coo’s.

“It’s too bad of the Cooies, too bad. I really don’t believe—” when the little sound reached her ears, and looking up quickly, she saw that the window was slightly open at the top, and again she heard a soft, very soft “coo.”

It only took her a moment to push up the lower sash as high as it would go. Luckily there were bars across, so she could not lean far out; only her forehead and eyes and the top of her curly head got through, but even this gave her a clearer view of the fairy tree and the boughs, lower down than her window, from which Mr Coo had so often “talked” to her, while keeping at the same time his eye on Mrs Coo patiently seated on the nest farther in among the branches, and ready to do any little errand that might be wanted.

The nest, alas, was no longer there; only bits of it, at leasts were left Mary knew so exactly where it had been that she could distinguish the fragments, but no one looking for it for the first time could have seen anything at all. But—something better than the nest met Mary’s delighted eyes. Two little well-known figures were there—on the very end of one of the boughs, so as the better to catch her eye, and now there was no doubt in her mind as to the sound she had heard—her own dear wood-pigeons were back again, and looking to see her at the window!

She was so pleased that she almost screamed!

“Oh, Cooies, Cooies,” she cried, “you’ve come back. But why did you go away for so long? You don’t know how unhappy I’ve been. I wish you’d come up here on to the window-sill and let me tell you all about it.”

There came another “coo,” rather louder and clearer than usual, and then a flutter and movement, a spreading of little wings, and—

“I do believe,” said Mary to herself, “I do believe they’ve heard me and understood what I say.”

She spoke more than half in fun; she did not really think it could be true; all the same a sort of tremble of wonder and delight went through her, as she saw her little friends slowly rising upwards and heard the soft swish of their wings as they flew towards—yes actually towards her!

Was she dreaming?

She rubbed her eyes, as people always do when they are not quite sure if they are awake, or as they think they do when they are really asleep, but the rubbing made no difference. She was not dreaming. She was standing at her own window, it was still broad daylight, and everything was quite natural and real, and the same as usual except that the pair of wood-pigeons were flying towards her and in another moment had perched on her window-sill!

“They are fairies,” Mary decided, “that is it.”

“But not unkind, tricky fairies, I hope,” said a gentle soft voice, and a queer little shiver went through Mary. Fairies or not, a fairy gift had come to her. She could understand what the Cooies said!

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she exclaimed, half frightened and half wild with delight. “You must be fairies, for I can talk to you and know what you say.”

There was a sound like a murmur of laughter, and then the little voice again. It was Mrs Coo’s this time, but Mary had not yet learnt to distinguish between the two, though she soon came to do so.

“No, dear,” it said, “not more fairies than all we wood-creatures are, if only you human beings would take the trouble to get to know us. But some do—some few—and you are one of those it has come to easily, to understand us. We have always understood you. And now you must tell us all about what has been the matter.”

“And why you were crying so,” put in Mr Coo, who did not at all intend to be left out, especially as it was he who had made the discovery of Mary’s woe. “Such big tears too,” added Mrs Coo.

“It wasn’t only because we had gone away, was it?” asked Mr Coo.

“No,” replied Mary, finding herself, rather to her surprise, already getting used to the wonderful power that had come to her, “no, it wasn’t only that, because, you see, I thought you would soon come back again, as you have sometimes flown off for a day or two, you know. No, it wasn’t only that. It was that he wouldn’t believe me, and I care for him far the most of all my cousins. I mean Michael.”

“Michael,” repeated Mr Coo, “is he the fat little red-haired boy in sailor suits? His hair is something the colour of yours, Mary.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” said Mary, rather huffily. “That Michael! Of course not. That’s Fritz—stupid little thing. Michael isn’t fat. He’s tall and has proper dark hair, and he’s very, very brave. Fancy taking Fritz for Michael!”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr Coo, but though his tone was very polite it was rather stiff. “How were we to know, seeing we are not nasty tricky fairies, about your relations, unless you explain them?” Mary felt herself growing red.

“I didn’t say nasty tricky fairies,” she replied very meekly. “I think I said ‘unkind,’ but I didn’t mean you to hear, and it was only just when I was vexed. But I’m sure now that you are very kind, and I am so glad you have come back again that I wouldn’t for anything be rude.”

“All right,” said Mr Coo, “I am sure you did not intend to hurt our feelings. We couldn’t care for you if you were that sort of little girl. But please be so good as to tell us about Michael, for time is getting on.”

“Yes,” Mary agreed, “they will soon be calling me to tea. Well—it was this way. You know that I’ve known you—that we’ve known each other, though not so well as now.”

“No, till now it has just been a polite acquaintance, so to say. Good-morning and good-evening, and so on—on your part at least, Mary,” interrupted Mr Coo. But Mrs Coo gave him a tiny poke with one of her feet—and Mary went on—

“Now that we can talk to each other it seems quite different, of course. All the same I have watched you ever since I came to live in this house—but somehow I’ve never spoken about you to any one. I didn’t want all the children to come bothering to my window, you see, and the nurseries all look to the front; I wanted to keep you to myself. But when Michael came home—he’s a sailor already, that’s why he’s so very brave—I thought I’d tell him about you—I wanted to tell somebody, you see, and—”

A bell sounded—a voice at the door—

“Miss Mary, my dear.”

Chapter Two.

“A Few Crumbs and a Little Fresh Water.”

“Oh bother,” said Mary, “it’s tea—and nurse come to fetch me. What shall we do?”—“Yes, yes, nurse,” in a louder voice, “I’m coming in one moment,” and this seemed to satisfy nurse, for her steps sounded going downstairs again. “She needn’t open the door without tapping,” the little girl went on, speaking half to herself and half to her visitors on the window-sill, “I’m not one of the nursery children now. But oh, Cooies, what shall we do? It would take me ever so long to explain about Michael and to plan something to put it all right.”

“Must you go downstairs at once?” asked Mr Coo. “If you told it to us very quickly.”

But Mary shook her head.

“No—I must go. If I don’t, she’ll be coming up again, or sending for me, and I don’t want any one to hear us talking. They would laugh at me so, and say it was all nonsense. They are always calling me so fanciful.”

“I see,” said Mr Coo, thoughtfully.

But Mrs Coo did more than think.

“Of course,” she said, “there’s only one thing to be done. We must come back again to-morrow.”

She spoke just a tiny bit sharply.

“We are very busy,” said Mr Coo, “getting settled, you see, and choosing where our new nest is to be, and returning our neighbours’ calls, and so on.”

“All that can stand over,” said Mrs Coo. “Just say, my dear, what time to-morrow will be best.”

“I think” said Mary, “the best time will be when we come in from our walk in the morning. The little ones go to bed then for an hour, and I’ve had my lessons, and nurse generally tells me to take a book and sit still, and if it isn’t cold she lets me come up to my room, and she stays in the night nursery to keep Fritz and Twitter and baby from jumping out of their cots or teasing each other. Yes, please come about twelve o’clock, and would you like anything to eat?”

“You are very kind,” said Mr and Mrs Coo together. “A few crumbs and a little fresh water, perhaps,” and then off they flew.

Mary gazed after them for a moment or two, till their pearly grey wings were almost out of sight. She felt very happy—it was lovely to have seen them again; still more lovely to find that the wonderful, rare gift of being able to understand and talk to them had come to her.

“I won’t tell any one about it,” she decided, as she ran downstairs. “They would only laugh and call me fanciful that horrid way. Perhaps Fritz and Twitter wouldn’t; they’d just think it was a sort of fairy story I was making up for them—and it is a sort of fairy story, only it’s true! But they’re too little, they’d repeat it all to nurse, and of course it would be very wrong to tell them anything they weren’t to tell nurse. Michael wouldn’t have laughed at me; at least he wouldn’t have before, but now that he thinks I tell what isn’t true, he’d do worse than laugh at me. He’d look shocked again—oh dear!”

And Mary’s face, which had been so bright a minute or two ago, grew sad and grave, but just as she opened the nursery door another thought struck her.

The Cooies were coming again to-morrow, and she would tell them all about it, and they would plan something to make it all right; she felt sure they would.

The three little ones were already seated at the tea-table, and nurse was filling their cups and helping them to bread-and-butter.

“Maly, Maly,” said Fritz, “sit by me.”

“No, no, ’aside me,” said Twitter, a funny little girl with short, dark hair and bright dark eyes.

“Thide Baba,” added “baby,” another little fat, fair boy like Fritz.

It was rather nice to be welcomed like this, and Mary’s spirits, always very ready to go up or down, rose again.

“I can’t sit ‘’aside’ you all three,” she said, drawing in her chair, “so as Baba-boy has to be next nurse, I’ll sit between Fritz and Twitter.”

“And ’mile at Baba ac’oss the table,” said the baby.

“Yes, darling, of course I will,” said Mary, kindly.

After all, it was easy to forgive Fritz and him for being so fat, when you found how good-natured they were, though Mary did not think it pretty! Twitter, whose real name was Charlotte, was good-natured, too, in her own way, but she had a quick temper, and though she was such a little girl, she was very fond, dreadfully fond, of arguing.

“Once start Miss Twitter,” nurse used to say, “and you never know when she’ll stop,” and it was much the same with her if she began to cry. It would go on and on till everybody’s patience was worn out, and worst of all when you thought it had really come to an end, some tiny word or look even would begin it all again.

Still, on the whole, Mary cared the most for Twitter of her three little cousins. She was certainly the cleverest, and the most ready to understand what had come to be called “Miss Mary’s fancifulness.”

Perhaps, as I have spoken of the children as her cousins, I had better explain a little about the family in the Square. Mary herself had no brothers or sisters, and no father or mother; “no nobody,” she once said of herself very pitifully when she was very little, and before she came to live with her kind relations, who at that time were not in England. But she had always been very well taken care of by a lady who long ago had been Mary’s own mother’s governess, and now she had several “somebodies,” her uncle and aunt and the three little ones, and best of all, perhaps, Michael, the big brother of sixteen, who had been her first great friend in her new home. He was then a boy of twelve and Mary was eight, and boys of twelve sometimes look down on little girls who are four or five years younger than they are. Not so with Michael, he was so good and kind. He tried to make the shy little cousin, with her curly red hair and soft brown eyes, feel “at home” and happy, by every means in his power, and Mary had never forgotten this, and often said to herself that she never, never would (and I don’t think she ever will).

Nurse looked at Mary rather curiously as she handed her her tea-cup.

“Was there any one in the room with you, Miss Mary, my dear, when I went upstairs to fetch you?”

“No,” said Mary, but her own tone was perhaps not quite as usual, for she was thinking to herself if the “no” was quite truthful. Yes it was, she decided, the Cooies were not in the room, and besides, nurse meant any person—wood-pigeons were not people. So “No,” she repeated, more positively, “why do you ask, nurse?”

“Oh,” said nurse, “I may have been mistaken, but I thought I heard you speaking as I opened the door.”

“I daresay I was,” said Mary.

Nurse said something indistinct—a sort of “humph.”

“It is not a very good habit to get into—that speaking to yourself,” she said. “It makes one seem silly-like.”

“Perhaps I am silly,” answered Mary, half mischievously. “You know, nurse, you are always calling me full of fancies.”

“They’s very nice fancies,” said Twitter, “Maly tells we lubly faily stolies, dudn’t her, Flitz?”

Fritz’s mouth was full, and the nursery rules for good behaviour at meals were strict, so he only nodded.

“Fairy tales are all very well in their proper place,” said nurse.

“What is their proper place?” asked Mary, and I am afraid she spoke rather pertly.

“Pretty picture-books and such like,” nurse replied, for she was very matter-of-fact. “Just like nursery rhymes and songs—‘Little Boy Blue’ and ‘Bo-peep,’ and all the rest of them. But it would be very silly for young ladies and gentlemen to go on with babyish things like that, when they can read quite well and learn beautiful verses like ‘Old Father William,’ and ‘The Battle of —’ no, I don’t rightly remember the name, but it’s a fine piece of poetry if ever there was one, and I recollect my brother Tom saying it at a prize-giving at our school at home, and the squire’s lady had her handkerchief at her eyes, and the squire himself shook him by the hand, and Tom and me was that proud.”

This was interesting, and Mary could not resist asking a number of questions about Tom, as to how old he had been then, and how old he was now, to which nurse was only too pleased to reply, adding that he was now a schoolmaster himself, with little Toms of his own, whom she went to see when she had her holiday once a year.

So the conversation turned into pleasant directions, and nothing more was said about Mary’s fancifulness.

When she woke the next morning Mary’s first glance, as usual, was towards the window. She never had the blinds drawn down at night, for she loved the morning light, and it did not wake her: she slept too soundly for that. And as there were, as I have told you, gardens—large gardens—at the back of the house, where her room was, there was no one to overlook her window.

Ah—it was a dull morning—a dull, grey, early autumn morning, and “I hope it’s not going to rain,” thought Mary. “I’m so afraid the Cooies wouldn’t come if it did, though perhaps they’re not afraid of getting wet.”

There came into her mind, however, the old rhyme about “The morning grey,” and as she dressed she kept peeping up at the sky, and was pleased to see that it was growing rather lighter and clearer. She was very glad of this, for even if it had only rained for an hour or two, it would have stopped the morning walk, and very likely the morning rest for the little ones, and she would not have had the hour to herself “to be quiet in,” as usual, but all, happily, turned out rightly, and some minutes before twelve o’clock Mary was standing by her window looking out for her little visitors.

She had good eyes, and she saw them quite a long way off. There were other birds flying about, of course, but none coming two together, straight on, without making circles or dips or going the least out of their path—two tiny specks they seemed at first, against the blue-grey sky, flying onwards in a most business-like way. For the old saying had proved true again; though not a brilliant day, it was quite fine and mild, and the sky was a soft, friendly colour, with no storm signs about it.

The two specks grew larger and larger, as they came nearer, and after alighting for a moment on the familiar bough of their own old tree home, apparently to smooth their feathers and take a tiny rest, the wood-pigeons fluttered across to the window-sill.

“Oh, I am so pleased to see you,” said Mary. “I was so afraid it was going to rain. Aren’t you tired and out of breath with flying so far?”

“No, thank you—flying never makes us out of breath. It is not like your running—not nearly such hard work. Our wings get a little stiff sometimes, if there is much wind and we have to battle against it. But to-day is very still, and even if it had rained we should have come just the same,” said Mr Coo.

“Thank you,” said Mary. “I have crumbled some nice biscuit all ready for you, you see, and there is some water in the lid of my soap-box; it is quite fresh.”

“Many thanks,” said Mrs Coo, “and all good wishes to you, my dear,” and as she spoke she bent her pretty head to take a drink. Mr Coo followed her example, and then they picked up some crumbs in quite an elegant manner—not at all in the hurried greedy way that some birds do.

“While you are having your luncheon,” said Mary, “I will tell you why I was so anxious to see you. You know my cousin—my big cousin—Michael—no, perhaps you don’t, but it doesn’t matter. He is my favourite cousin, and there isn’t anything I don’t tell him. He always understands and never laughs at me—at least, he has been like that till just now. He is a sailor, and he is very seldom at home. He’s not been to see us since we came to live here till the other day. I had lots of things to tell him, of course, and one of the things I told him was about you, dear Cooies, and how nice it was to have you living in the tree close to my window. I thought he looked a little funny when I told it him, and now I’m quite sure they’d been talking to him that horrid way about me being fanciful,” Mary stopped a moment to take breath, and Mr Coo, who had picked up as many crumbs as he wanted, cocked his head on one side and looked up at her very gravely.

“Whom do you mean by ‘they’?” he inquired.

“Oh,” said Mary, “everybody. I suppose I mean all the big people. Auntie and uncle, for I daresay auntie talks about it to him, and Miss Bray—no, I’m not sure about Miss Bray. She’s my daily governess, but I never see her except at lessons, and she never talks about anything except lessons—she’s rather dull,” and Mary sighed. “And most of all,” she went on again, “nurse. She is the worst of all, though she’s quite kind. She doesn’t understand the tiniest bit in the world about fairy stories, you see. She thinks they’re just like nursery rhymes. Fancy, putting fairy stories and nursery rhymes together!”

“Nursery rhymes are very nice sometimes,” said Mrs Coo. “The verse in ‘Cock-robin’ about our cousins, the Doves, is lovely, only it is too much for my feelings,” and she really looked as if she were going to cry.

“But they are only for babies,” said Mary, “and I know that some big people are just as fond of fairy stories as I am. Michael told me so, and he gave me a book of them, his very own self, on my last birthday. Well—I must go on telling you what happened. The very next morning after I had told him my secret about you, my dear Cooies, I made him come up here to see your nest, though I told him you yourselves hadn’t been here for a day or two. And, wasn’t it unlucky?—there had been lots of wind the night before, and the nest was nearly all blown away; a branch had fallen on it, I think. It was already just like now—really nothing to be seen, except by any one who had known of it before. And you were not there either. No sign of you. So Michael looked at me very gravely and he said, ‘My dear Mary, you really mustn’t let your fancy run away with you. I can’t believe there have ever been wood-pigeons in that tree. You may have seen a pair of common pigeons from the stables over there, flying about, but it is most unlikely that there ever was a nest there; there certainly isn’t now.’ And he looked at me as if he really thought I’d been making up a story.”

“Dear, dear!” said Mr and Mrs Coo together, “it’s certainly very sad.”

“I had no time to say much more to him,” Mary went on. “He had to go away again to Portsmouth or Plymouth, or one of those ‘mouth’ places, that very afternoon, and there was no time to say any more or to ask him if he really thought I had been telling stories. But I’m sure he did, and so after he’d gone, I just stood up here and cried.”

And poor Mary looked as if it would not take much to make her cry again.

“I saw you,” said Mr Coo.

“You saw me,” exclaimed Mary, rather indignantly, “and you didn’t speak to me, or fly up for me to see you?”

Mr Coo cleared his throat.

“I did not know what was the matter,” he said, “and—I thought it best to hurry home, to—to talk it over, and then we both came the next morning—yesterday morning.”

“Well,” said Mary, “it was very good of you, but all the same, I think you might—” but after all, the question was how to put things right with Michael, so she said no more, not feeling sure, you see, but that even the gentle Cooies might feel hurt if she reproached them.

“Michael is coming back again,” she said after a moment’s silence, “the day after to-morrow, to stay two nights.”

“Ah!” said Mr Coo, in a tone which made Mary think to herself that if he had been a dog he would have pricked up his ears.

And “Ah!” repeated Mrs Coo.

Mary was silent.

“Supposing,” began Mrs Coo, “supposing we could arrange to spend a day here?”

“A day,” repeated Mary; “you don’t mean, you surely don’t mean, dear Cooies, that you are not coming back to live here any more.”

Mr Coo bent his head gravely; so did Mrs Coo.

“Even so,” they murmured.

“Oh!” cried Mary, the tears rushing to her eyes, “do you really mean you won’t count the fairy tree your home any more—that you won’t build another nest, and have new little eggs there next spring? Oh dear, oh dear!”

Mr and Mrs Coo felt very distressed.

“My dear Mary,” said Mr Coo, “it cannot be helped. We have been intending to leave the Square gardens for some time past. It is no longer the place for us: we require more quiet and fresher air, not to speak of the risk of—” but here he stopped short.

“That’s what Michael said,” sobbed Mary. “He said it wasn’t in nature that cooies—I mean wood-pigeons—would stay in a town, and that’s why he couldn’t believe I had seen you. And now—”

“Wait a minute, my dear,” said Mrs Coo, “and let me explain. We were both hatched here, you see. There were lots of nests in these trees not so very long ago; but there have been so many human nests—houses, I mean—built here lately that the air is no longer what it used to be. The smoke of so many chimneys is too much for us; sometimes we can scarcely breathe, and really our whole time seems spent in trying to brush our feathers clean.”

“And where are you going to live, then?” asked Mary, who felt interested in her friends’ plans, though so sorry to lose them.

“We have taken a branch in one of the finest elms in Levin Forest,” said Mr Coo. “A charming situation, and where we have a good many relations.”

“Yes,” said Mary, “I daresay it is very nice for you—very nice, indeed; but think of me. You don’t know how I’d got into the way of looking out for you and watching you and listening to you; and now that I can understand what you say, it’s ever so much worse to lose you. Particularly just now, just as it really so matters to me. Michael will always think now that I’d made up a story about you, and he will never care for me again as he used to.”

“Don’t be so unhappy, dear Mary,” said both the Coos together; “most likely things won’t be so bad as you fear.”

“You say,” Mr Coo went on, “that Michael is coming back again soon?”

“Yes,” Mary replied. “Aunt told me that he has written to say he will be here to-morrow evening, but only for two nights. Then he has to go back to his ship, and I daresay he won’t be home again for—oh, I daresay not for a whole year.”

“To-morrow evening,” repeated Mr Coo; “well then, do you think you can promise to make him come up here to your window the morning after, at twelve o’clock?”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Mary, her face lighting up, and looking ready to jump with joy. “You mean that you’ll come then for him to see you? Oh, thank you, dear Cooies, thank you so much. How I do wish you were going to stay, and not go off to that horrid forest!”

“It is a lovely place,” said Mrs Coo, “and so you would think. And who knows—some day you may see it for yourself.”

“But for the present we must be off,” said Mr Coo. “Good-bye till the day after to-morrow, at twelve o’clock; and be sure you don’t cry any more.”

“I’ll have some nice crumbs and fresh water ready for you again,” said Mary.

Chapter Three.

“One on her Shoulder, One on her Outstretched Hand.”

Late the next evening a tall boy in midshipman’s uniform ran upstairs and into the drawing-room of Mary’s home. His mother was sitting there alone. She looked up brightly.

“I thought it was you, dear Mike,” she said. “No one else comes with such a rush. I am so glad you have got off again; but I suppose it is only for two nights?”

“Only,” he replied; “but it is lucky to have got even that. May I have some tea, mother, or is it too late?”

“Of course not. Ring, dear, and you will have it at once.”

“And how’s Mary?” said Michael, as he drank his tea.

His mother looked a little surprised.

“Mary?” she repeated. “Quite well. Indeed I think she is scarcely ever ill.”

“Oh, I don’t mean really ill,” said the boy; “but don’t you remember what you were saying—you said nurse had been speaking of it—that Mary is getting fanciful and dreamy, and all that sort of thing, and more like that since I’ve been so much away. And the other day I did think she seemed rather down in the mouth.”

His mother looked thoughtful.

“I am sure she misses you a great deal,” she said. “The others are so much younger. And then the change from the country to living in a town. I daresay she misses country things.”

“I expect she does—lots,” said Michael; and though he did not speak of it—as he had a feeling that Mary had trusted him with what she counted a sort of secret—his mind went back to what she had told him of the wood-pigeons and their nest. “It must have been all her fancy,” he thought; “but it shows how her head runs on country things like that.”

“She enjoyed the seaside, I think,” his mother went on, “though not as much as the little ones did. She is too big for digging in the sand and paddling, and so on. And the place we were at was bare and uninteresting—not a tree to be seen—what people call an excellent place for children. Yes, perhaps poor Mary has not been quite in her element lately.” And Mary’s aunt looked rather distressed. Suddenly her face cleared.

“By the bye, Mike,” she exclaimed, “how stupid of me to have forgotten. I had a letter lately from Mary’s godmother—old Miss Verity; she lives at Levinside, near the forest, you know. She wrote to ask how Mary was getting on; and she said she would be delighted to have the child for a visit if ever we thought she would be the better for some country air. It is very charming there, even in late autumn or winter. If Mary seems very dull after you go, I think I will write to Miss Verity and propose a visit.”

Michael gave a sort of grunt.

“I shouldn’t think it would be very lively for her,” he said, “going to stay with an old maid like that, all by herself. Better be here with you, mother, and Fritz and Twitter.”

“Ah, but you don’t know Miss Verity,” said his mother. “She’s not like an old maid, or rather she is the very nicest old maid that ever lived. She is full of spirits and very clever and very kind, and I am sure she would be just the person to understand a rather fanciful child like Mary. Mary has scarcely seen her, but I am sure they would get on, and she knew Mary’s own mother so well. And her house is so pretty and so prettily situated.”

“It might be a good plan,” said Mike, “but if I were you, mother, I’d see what Mary herself thinks of it before you settle anything.”

“Yes, I will,” she replied. “It would certainly do Mary no good to go there against her own wishes. For she has decided ideas of her own, though she is a gentle obedient child as a rule. But I think I hear her coming, Mike, so take care. I don’t want her to think we are talking her over. Nurse is not always careful enough in that way; she forgets that Mary is growing older.”

The door opened almost as she said the last word, and Michael could not help smiling to himself as he thought how very easily his little cousin might have overheard her own name, though his mother meant to be so thoughtful. He looked up brightly, the smile still on his face, and he was pleased to see an answering-back one on Mary’s as she caught sight of him.

“Oh, dear Mike,” she exclaimed, “it is you! Oh, you don’t know how glad I am you’ve come. I thought I heard you running upstairs, and I wanted to come to see, but nurse said I must be dressed first Auntie, I wish you’d tell nurse sometimes to let me run down to speak to you without such a fuss. I’m not as little as Twitter, you know.”

Her aunt glanced at her and smiled, and Michael smiled too.

“Yes, mother,” he said, “I think nurse does treat Molly rather too babyishly now.”

Mary glanced at him gratefully, and her face brightened still more. Michael seemed quite like himself to her again.

“I rather agree with you,” said his mother. “I will give her a hint. Have you been wanting to see me for anything special to-day, Mary dear?”

“Oh no, it was only that I was so hoping Michael would come,” she replied; and a moment or two later, when her aunt happened to have gone to the other end of the room to write a letter, the little girl turned to her cousin.

“Mike,” she said, speaking almost in a whisper, “have you settled what you are going to do to-morrow, exactly?”

“Well, no, not quite. It depends on mother. I have not much to do, myself. I did all my shopping last week, you see. I thought it would be nice to have the last two days pretty clear. Mother,” he went on, raising his voice a little, “what would you like me to do to-morrow—I have kept it quite free for you—and Mary,” he added quickly.

“Darling,” said his mother. “Well, I was thinking we might go out together in the afternoon, you and I. I want you to say good-bye to your godmother—and if you and Mary can think of anything you would like to do in the morning, that would suit very well,” and then she went on writing.

“What would you like to do, then, Moll?” said Michael. “I’m sure you’ve got something in your head.”

Mary clasped her hands in eagerness.

“Anything you like, Mike,” she said. “The only thing I want you to promise me is that you will come up to my room to-morrow morning at twelve o’clock to see something. I won’t tell you what it is, but when you see, you will understand.”

“At twelve o’clock,” said Michael, “twelve exactly?”

“Yes,” said Mary.

“All right,” her cousin replied. “You’re a queer child, Moll. Well then, I think the best thing we can do is to go shopping for an hour or so about half-past ten. You’re to have a holiday, you know, and you like shopping.”

“Dreadfully,” said Mary, “especially with you. What sort will it be?”

“It’s some of my Christmas presents that are still on my mind,” said Michael. “Mother’s, and Twit’s—I never know about girls’ things. I’m going to leave them with you to give for me. Father’s and the little boys’ I’ve got all right.”

Mary’s face shone with pleasure.

“That will be lovely,” she said. “I know several things that Twitter would like, and I daresay nurse would help us to think of something for auntie. Nurse is very good about that sort of thing.”

“Isn’t she good about everything?” asked Michael. Mary grew a little red.

“She vexes me sometimes,” she replied. “P’raps she doesn’t understand. I’ll explain to you better after to-morrow morning. Oh Mike dear, I am so sorry you’re going away,” and her face got rather sad again.

“But you look ever so much jollier than when I went away on Tuesday,” said Michael.

“Well, yes, because I’m feeling so,” she answered.

“All the same, Michael, I know it’s going to be awfully dull till you come back again. They say it’s so gloomy and dark in the winter sometimes; not like the country. I shall always like the country best, Mike.”

“So should I,” said her cousin, “that’s to say if it was a choice between it and a town, though I like the sea best of all, of course. But don’t get melancholy again, Moll. Something may turn up to help you through the gloomy months.”

“I shall miss you so,” said Mary, “and there’s something else I shall miss too.”

She was thinking of the Cooies, and she was glad to feel that once Michael had seen them and knew about them, she would be able to tell him of their going away, and that they only came back out of affection for her now and then.

More than this she felt she must not tell him, as it was a sort of secret between her and them. There are fairy secrets sometimes which it would be almost impossible to tell to anybody.

The rest of that evening and the next morning passed very cheerfully, even though Michael’s time was to be so short at home. Nurse proved quite as kind and interested about the Christmas presents as Mary had expected. Indeed there was nothing she would not have been interested about if it concerned her eldest nursling, as big Michael was, and she was really fond of Mary too, and pleased to see her happy, though she had only had the care of her for a much shorter time than the others.

The two set off for their shopping quite early. They knew pretty exactly what they wanted to buy; which is always a great help when you go on such an expedition; for after a good deal of thought, nurse had decided that a new thimble was what “auntie” would like best. It was to be a really pretty one of a new pattern, and nurse was able to direct them to a jeweller’s shop where she had seen some beauties in the window, and it was to have his mother’s initials engraved on it, Michael said, and to be in a pretty case, lined with velvet. This important piece of business was quickly completed, as they found the jeweller’s without difficulty. Twitter’s present took rather longer; it was to be a set of toy tea-things, and as Michael liked china ones with tiny roses on, and Mary preferred some with forget-me-nots, they felt rather at a loss, till luckily the shopwoman, who was very good-natured, found a third pattern, of rosebuds and forget-me-nots together, which was a charming way out of the puzzle.

Then Michael proposed that they should go to a confectioner’s not far from their own Square, to get a little luncheon. They kept capital buns there, he said, and after eating two of them, and having a glass of delicious milk, Mary quite agreed with him, and they were sitting at the little round marble-topped table very happily, when she happened to glance at a clock hanging up on the wall, and started to see that it was already a quarter to twelve o’clock.

“Oh Mike,” she exclaimed, “we must hurry. It is nearly twelve.”

Michael glanced at his watch.

“Yes,” he said, “but if we’re not back quite—oh I forgot—you wanted to show me something in your room at twelve o’clock. But won’t it keep? It’s not likely to fly away.”

Mary’s face flushed.

“To fly away,” she repeated. “I never spoke of flying.”

“No,” said Michael, “it’s just a way of speaking,” but he looked at her rather oddly. “What are you stuffing into your pocket, child?” he went on.

“Only a bit of bun I don’t want to eat,” she replied, getting still redder, for it had suddenly struck her that she had got no crumbs ready for the Cooies, and that she would not have time to ask for any.

“And if they keep their promise to me,” she said to herself, “I must certainly keep mine to them.”—“Mike, dear,” she went on beseechingly, “do let us hurry. What I want to show you won’t ‘keep’—perhaps,” in a lower voice, “it may fly away.”

Michael had already paid for their luncheon, and fortunately they were near home, and five minutes’ quick walking covers more ground than you might think. They were soon at their own door, and the moment it opened, up flew Mary to her room.

“Mike,” she had said as they stood on the front steps, “take out your watch and look at it, and when the hand gets to five minutes past twelve, run up to my room after me. Don’t rap at the door, but come straight in.”

Michael laughed, and repeated to himself, though he did not say it aloud—

“You are a queer child, Moll.”

He waited the few minutes, as she had asked, then made his way upstairs after her. It was a pretty and unexpected sight that met his eyes, as he quietly opened the door, without knocking. He felt very curious about this secret of his little cousin’s—half suspecting she had some trick preparing for him, and not wishing to be taken unawares, as what boy would!

But the moment he caught sight of her, and heard the gentle sounds from where she stood by the window, he “understood”—for he was very quick at understanding—and felt ashamed of the doubts he had had of Mary’s truthfulness.

There they were—the wood-pigeons he had almost thought lived only in her imagination—one on her shoulder, one just perching on her outstretched hand, on the friendliest terms, it was easy to see—cooing in the sweetest way, while Mary murmured some caressing words to them. Nor were they startled away when Michael drew near, stepping softly, it is true, but still not so softly but that the little wood-creatures, well used to notice every tiniest sound in their forest homes, heard him, and even, it seemed to Michael, glanced towards him, quite fearlessly—quite secure in Mary’s protection.

“Well, Mike?” she said with a smile. “They are very tame, you can come quite close,” and then Michael heard again her own little murmur, though he did not know that it meant: “of course he won’t harm you, dear Cooies.”

Michael drew near.

“They are sweet,” he said, “are they your own, Molly? or have you tamed them?”

Mary shook her head.

“They didn’t need taming,” she replied. “They lived in the tree there,” and she nodded towards it. “They have known me ever since I came to live in the Square, and I have watched them, as I told you the other day. The remains of their old nest are still there, but I am sure they are not going to build there any more. They only fly over here to see me, and I give them crumbs and water whenever they come.”

“Oh,” said Michael, “that was what the bit of bun was stuffed into your pocket for.”

Mary smiled.

“But, Mike,” she said gravely, “you know—I am afraid you did not believe me when I told you about the Cooies.”

It was Michael’s turn to redden a little now.

“The—the what-d’ye-call them?” he said, trying to avoid a reply.

“The Cooies. It’s my name for them,” said Mary, “because of the sweet way they coo. But Mike, do tell me—did you believe me?”

“I don’t quite know,” answered her cousin, honestly. “I didn’t think you were making up a regular story—an untruth, I mean,—I knew you wouldn’t do that, but I did think perhaps you’d fancied part of it. You might have seen other birds flying about, that you let yourself imagine were wood-pigeons, and certainly the remains in the tree scarcely look like a nest, do they?”

“No, they don’t,” said Mary. “The wind tore it to pieces that night it blew so.”

“Yes, I understand it all now,” said Michael, “except—it’s quite wonderful how you’ve managed to tame them so. They are like pet doves—I really am afraid I couldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” and as he spoke, he very gently stroked Mr Coo’s opal-coloured feathers.

“They have tamed themselves, the darlings,” said Mary. “I think wild creatures would soon learn to know me.”

“It’s wonderful,” Michael repeated. “I have heard of some people who have a kind of power over animals, and perhaps you are one of them.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Mary. “Then, Michael,” she went on, “you haven’t told any one about the Cooies, have you? not about my telling you of them, and your not quite—”

“Of course not,” said Michael, interrupting her, “and please don’t say any more about that part of it.”

“Well, I won’t, then,” Mary replied, “but I want you not to speak about them at all to any one. You see they are going away—they are not going to build here any more, and nurse, and even auntie perhaps, would scarcely—oh yes, of course they’d believe you. But still, I’d rather no one heard about them. I do so wish they hadn’t got tired of these gardens.”

“It’s better than for them to stay to be caught by cats,” said Michael.

This was a possibility which had not struck Mary before, and she shivered at the thought.

“Oh dear, yes,” she said, “what a dreadful idea!” and when Michael, hearing his mother calling, left the room, she turned to her little friends.

“Thank you so much, dear Cooies,” she said, “but I won’t ask you ever to come back to see me if there is the least fear of anything so dreadful.”

“We did not like to mention it before,” said Mr Coo, “but it was in our minds, and not without reason. Now we must fly off, but—you will see, Mary—we shall meet again before long.”

Mary shook her head. She was very nearly crying.

“Cheer up,” murmured Mrs Coo, who was still perched on her shoulder.

Then off they flew.

Chapter Four.

“We Shall Meet Again Before Long, Mary.”

It was not easy for either Mary or her aunt to keep up their spirits when the two days were over, and from the drawing-room window they watched their dear Mike driving away.

“To think,” said his mother, almost in a whisper, “to think of the long, long way he is going—and the many, many days and nights that must pass before we see him again, and all the dangers and risks he must pass through—” but a tiny sob beside her made her stop short.

“Mary, dear,” she exclaimed, “I did not mean to make you cry,” and she kissed the little girl very lovingly.

They were quite alone, as Mary’s uncle, Mike’s father, had gone with him to the port from which Michael’s ship was to sail.

Mary wiped her eyes and kissed her aunt in return.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” she said, “Mike told me to cheer you up, auntie. And I think he is very happy. If I were a boy like him, I’d love to go sailing all over the world and to see all the strange wonderful places he is going to see. I’m sure he likes being a sailor awfully.”

“Yes,” her aunt agreed, “I am sure too that he was right in choosing the life. Most boys have a fancy for it, but with many it goes off, and Michael loves it more and more. And he is growing so strong—you would scarcely believe, Mary, that long ago, before you came to us, he was rather a delicate little boy, not nearly as sturdy as Fritz.”

“I remember hearing that he was very ill, with that fever,” said Mary, “when—,” but she did not finish the sentence, and her aunt understood why. There had been other children—two dear little daughters were between Michael and Fritz, in that family.

Auntie gave Mary another kiss, and something in Mary’s voice made her look at her.

“Molly, dear,” she said,—she did not often call her by this pet name, but it seemed as if she used it now for Michael’s sake,—“you are looking rather pale, as well as sad. I am afraid town doesn’t suit you as well as the country.”

“It is that I can’t bear—‘people,’” Mary was going to have said, but it struck her that wood-pigeons were scarcely “people,” and she was thinking of them as well as of Michael, “I can’t bear goings away,” she said.

“Could you not bear to go away yourself—for a little while?” said her aunt, “for a little change?”

Mary shook her head.

“No, auntie, dear,” she said, “I’d rather stay with you.”

“But it is dull for you, dear, and I am afraid I shall not be able to have you with me as much as I would like, while our cousins are here.”

Mary’s face fell.

“I’d forgotten about them,” she said.

The cousins were an elderly lady and gentleman who paid a visit every year to Mary’s uncle and aunt, and expected a good deal of attention.

“Never mind, auntie,” she went on, after a moment’s silence, “I won’t be dull. I’ll play a lot with the little ones.”

“But wait a minute, dear,” said her aunt. “I won’t force it upon you, but it is only right I should tell you of an invitation I have for you—from one of your godmothers—Miss Verity, do you remember her?”

“No,” said Mary, “I don’t remember her, but she always sends me a present on my birthday, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” said her aunt, “she is very kind and very nice every way. See here, dear, this is her letter; I think you can read the writing; it is so clear.”

It was beautiful writing—almost too fine and small, but such perfectly shaped letters that it was as easy to read as printing.

“My dear Charlotte,” it said—“I have always wished to make the acquaintance of my god-daughter, your little niece, Mary. And now that we are such very much nearer neighbours, this could surely be easily arranged. Will you spare her to me for a few weeks? I think I can almost promise you that I could make her happy, even though I have no young companions for her, and the most beautiful part of the year is past—though to my thinking, it is always beautiful here. I can send my maid, Pleasance, whom I daresay you remember, to fetch her, any day next week that would be convenient. I daresay a little holiday would do Mary no harm, and indeed she can go on with any of her lessons you like while with me, as I am very fond of teaching.—Your affectionate old friend, Felicia Verity.”

Mary read the letter slowly and carefully, but still she shook her head as she gave it back to its owner.

“No, auntie, dear,” she repeated, “I’d rather stay here.”

“It seems a pity,” said her aunt, as she slowly folded up the letter. “Levinside is such a pretty place, and Miss Verity’s house has such a pretty name, ‘Dove’s Nest,’ doesn’t that tempt you, Mary?”

Mary looked up quickly, “Dove’s Nest” was very pretty, but another name had caught her attention more sharply, through her memory rather than her fancy.

“Levinside,” she repeated, “Dove’s Nest at Levinside.”

“Yes,” said her aunt, “close to Levin Forest. You have heard of Levin Forest?”

Mary did not reply directly, but her aunt saw that her cheeks grew pink.

“May I see the letter again, please, auntie?” she said, and again her aunt unfolded it and handed it to her.

She did not look at the written part this time. Her eyes were fixed on the prettily engraved address at the top, printed in a rather peculiar shade of green—

“Dove’s Nest, Levinside.”

Then after gazing at it for a moment or two, she handed the sheet back to her aunt.

“Yes, auntie,” she said quietly, “I think I would like to go to my godmother’s.”

Her aunt was pleased, though rather puzzled at the sudden change.

“She is a funny child,” she thought to herself. “It is some fancy about the forest that she has got into her head,” and Mary’s next words made her more sure of this.

“It is quite close to the forest, isn’t it?” the little girl asked rather anxiously.

“Yes,” her aunt replied, “the name ‘Levinside’ almost tells that, and Dove’s Nest is actually on the edge of the forest. I was there once—some years ago, when your uncle and I were in that neighbourhood for a few weeks, we spent a day there with old Miss Verity. She has lived there for a long, long time.”

“I should like to go,” Mary repeated, and there was quite a sparkle in the hazel eyes which had been looking rather sad.

So the letter accepting the invitation was written and posted that very day, and when Mary stood by her window and looked out at the deserted fairy tree, it was with much happier feelings than she had ever hoped to do so again.

“They must be fairies, or any way they must have to do with some,” she thought. “Otherwise how could they have known, as I am sure they did, that my godmother was writing to invite me. Their very last words showed that they did know. Oh, my darling Cooies, how sweet it will be to see you again. ‘We shall meet before long, you will see, Mary.’ I’m only afraid it won’t be a ‘surprise’ to them, for if they could read godmother’s letter they’re sure to know when I’m coming.”

The next few days passed very happily. Mary was very interested in her packing, and not very sorry to find that not many lesson books were to make part of it.

“It will do you no harm to have another holiday—or part-holiday,” said her aunt. “And there are many things besides regular lessons that Miss Verity can teach you, almost better than any one I know. She is wonderfully clever about plants and flowers—and knows a great deal about birds, I believe.”

Mary listened to this with great interest.

“I wonder,” she thought, “if my godmother knows the Cooies. Not my Cooies; they’ve only just gone to live there. But she may know some of their relations and friends.”

“In winter, of course,” her aunt went on, “there are scarcely any flowers and plants in most places, but the best of a forest is that there is always something interesting to a botanist—and in sheltered parts it is wonderful how late and how early one can find pretty ‘wood treasures.’ I believe that is one reason why Miss Verity loves Levinside so.”

“I like flowers and ivy and ferny things,” said Mary, “though I don’t know the names of many. But I love alive things best, aunt. I mean alive like us—birds, and squirrels, and rabbits, and dormice.” Her aunt smiled.

“I am afraid the dormice won’t be very alive just now,” she replied. “That’s to say they will be fast asleep. I have heard that they wake up once or twice in the winter, just to have a good stretch and nibble a few nuts, but I don’t know if it is true. You must ask Miss Verity.”

Mary’s eyes sparkled.

“Oh,” she said, “it would be lovely to see them stretching their dear little brown paws! They’d look like baby when he wakes up and is too sleepy to open his eyes, and is all rosy and hot.”

Altogether she felt very happy and interested about her visit—besides looking forward to seeing the Cooies again.

And when the day came, and Pleasance, Miss Verity’s “old-maid” maid arrived, Mary did not feel at all shy or frightened at setting off with her on the short journey. It would indeed have been difficult to feel shy with Pleasance; she had such a very pleasant, cheerful face that Mary could not help thinking how well her name suited her. She was plainly dressed in grey, almost like a quakeress, with net quillings inside her bonnet, but her eyes were bright and her cheeks rosy, and Mary thought that no other kind of dress would suit her as well Auntie seemed very pleased at Mary’s setting off so cheerfully, and kissed her very lovingly, but nurse looked at her almost reproachfully, especially when Twitter set up a sad wail at “Maly’s” going away, in which, after staring at her for a moment or two, before making up his mind, Fritz decided to join.

Mary felt rather unhappy. It does seem sometimes as if one could not please everybody, and after all, she had not asked to go away, and auntie had been glad when she said she would like to go.

“Don’t cry,” darlings, she whispered to the little ones, “Maly will soon come back again, and if only it was summer she would bring you some pretty flowers from the forest.”

Then Fritz stopped crying to whisper something in return, which at first she could not make out, but at last she did. It was “fir-cones”—nurse said there were fir-cones in the “follest.”

At this they all brightened up.

“Of course there are,” said Mary, “and I’ll bring you some to make a nice blaze in the nursery fire.”

“And to play wif,” said Twitter.

“Yes, you may keep some to play with,” Mary replied.

“Don’t make too sure of them, my dears,” said nurse, rather shortly; “Miss Mary will most likely be enjoying herself too much to care to be troubled with gathering fir-cones.”

Mary felt rather hurt, and before she had time to say anything her aunt turned to nurse, and said rather coldly,—

“Nonsense, nurse. You should know Miss Mary too well by this time to think that she would grudge a little trouble to please her cousins.”

Mary felt inclined to hug her aunt, and nurse looked sorry, and glancing at Pleasance, who was standing near the door, she saw by the little smile on the maid’s face that she too, as well as the children’s mother, had understood Mary’s feelings.

“I am sure I shall like her,” she thought to herself. Then she kissed Fritz, and Twitter, and Baby-boy again, and nurse too—which was rather nice of her, I think—and last of all her aunt, who gave her a warm hug.

And in another minute or two Mary was rattling to the station in a four-wheeler, with Pleasance beside her, and her luggage in front. And in another quarter of an hour or so, they were comfortably settled in the railway carriage—off to Levinside, Mary busy wondering to herself if this was the way the Cooies came to the Square gardens, or if they had some other “air-path,” without following the railway line.

She was roused from these reflections by the maid’s voice.

“It is a nice day for the time of year,” Pleasance said. “I hope, Miss Mary, it will be bright weather while you are with us.”

“Yes,” said Mary, rather absently. She was watching the flight of a bird overhead, and wondering if possibly it was one of her friends.

Pleasance thought she might be feeling rather shy and strange, so she went on talking.

“You have never been to Levinside, I think, Miss,” she said. “To my mind there’s no place like it, and no house like ours, though, to be sure, it’s quite small. But there’s not a window in it that you can’t see a bit of the forest from, not one, though at the back, of course, you see it best of all.”

Mary’s attention was fully caught by this time. “How nice,” she exclaimed, “how very nice! I do hope my room is at the back.”

“Yes, Miss Mary,” said the maid, pleased at her tone, “that is just what it is. It has two windows, and from one you could almost touch the trees. The other window is larger and gets the morning sun, so the room is not at all dull or chilly, indeed all our rooms are bright, though just at the edge of the forest.”

“I love forests,” said Mary, “at least I mean trees. I have never seen a real forest, only woods. Are there many birds in Levin Forest?” she went on, half timidly.

“A great many in the spring and summer time,” said Pleasance; “not so many now, of course. But enough to keep it cheery, so to say. And my lady has been very pleased lately at finding that the wood-pigeons have come over more to our part than they used. There’s a new road making across at the opposite side, and Miss Verity thinks perhaps that’s the reason; for though wood-pigeons are trusting sort of creatures, they don’t like being disturbed. And I daresay my lady’s right, for we’ve never heard them cooing like this year. It’s just beautiful.” Mary’s heart beat so fast with pleasure that she could scarcely speak. Could it be her own Cooies’ voices that Pleasance had heard? It was almost too lovely to hope for.

“I love wood-pigeons,” she said.

“Then you and my lady will be the best of friends,” said Pleasance, “for I almost think they are her favourites of all the creatures about.”

Thus beguiling the way with pleasant talk, like the travellers in the Pilgrim’s Progress, the little journey soon came to an end, and long before the autumn afternoon had given any signs of drawing in, the train slackened and pulled up at the small roadside station which was the nearest to Dove’s Nest, though a two-miles’ drive off.

And on the platform stood a lady whom Mary would have guessed to be her godmother, even if Pleasance had not exclaimed, “Here we are, Miss!” as she gathered Mary’s wraps and small luggage together.

Miss Verity had quite white—snow-white—hair. Just at the very first moment, somehow, this gave Mary a little start. She had not expected it, and she was not used to it, as her aunt and those she lived with had always been younger people. And there is something just a very little “uncanny”—till you get used to it—about very white hair and dark bright eyes; it is almost too like a “fairy godmother” to seem quite natural. But these dark eyes, though bright, were very, very sweet and soft too.

“If my godmother is at all a fairy,” thought Mary to herself, “she is a very good, kind one.”

So, though her cheeks had got rather pink with the surprise and a sort of sudden shyness, she held up her face to be kissed without hesitation, and slipped her hand into her godmother’s, feeling a pleasant sort of “sureness” that all that her aunt had told her about Miss Verity was going to come true.

There was a little pony-carriage waiting just outside the station gates, and standing in it was a rather fat piebald pony. The carriage only held two, and for a moment or so Mary wondered how she and her godmother and Pleasance were all to get to Dove’s Nest, as the maid had told her it was two or three miles from the station. But just then, glancing round, she saw that there was also a two-wheeled spring-cart, drawn by another piebald; and Miss Verity noticing Mary’s glances, smiled, as if she were answering an unspoken question.

“Yes,” she said, “they are both my ponies. Their names are Magpie and Jackdaw. Sometimes I drive them together, and then we do go pretty fast, though Magpie does not look as if that often happened, does she?”

Magpie was the fat pony that Mary had first noticed, though Jackdaw certainly was not thin!

“No,” said Mary, “she doesn’t. But she is very pretty,” she went on, feeling—as Magpie just then turned her head as if she was listening—that perhaps it might hurt her to hear herself spoken of as at all lazy; “she is very pretty, and I daresay she is fat because she is good-tempered.”

She looked up in her godmother’s face as she spoke, and again there came the quick smile which seemed to say better than words that Miss Verity understood her thoughts.

“Yes,” she replied, “there is a good deal in that. Magpie is very good-tempered; and poor Jackie is not bad-tempered, only a little bit fiery now and then. Won’t you pat them, Mary? It will be a sort of ‘How-do-you-do?’”

Mary was only too pleased to do so.

“You shall give them each a lump of sugar every morning,” said Miss Verity; and at this the piebalds pricked up their ears.

“I am sure,” thought Mary, “that they understand what godmother says, just as well as the Cooies understand me.”

And in this she was not far wrong.

Chapter Five.

“A Little Bird Told Me.”

It was a pretty drive to Dove’s Nest, even though the summer and early autumn beauty was past, and some of the trees that bordered the road were already bare. But when they had turned a corner of the road they came into clear view of the forest, and then Mary felt perfectly happy.

For a moment or two she did not speak, then she turned to her godmother and said rather shyly—“It’s like some of my fairy stories—the forest, I mean; isn’t it, godmother?”

Miss Verity smiled, and by the look in her eyes Mary saw that she understood.

“Yes,” she said. “I think that is why I like to live close to a forest. It seems full of fairy stories.” Mary gave a little sigh of pleasure. It is very nice to feel that big people know what you mean, even though you cannot say what you are feeling in very clear words. Then she sat silent again, gazing before her and feeling that she was already enjoying herself very much.

Magpie trotted along in her usual placid way; now and then pricking up her ears and switching her tail, though there were no flies about.

“What does she do that for?” asked Mary.

“I think it is just a little sign of friendliness,” said Miss Verity. “We know each other so well, you see—Magpie and I, I mean; we often jog along together like this for hours and hours. And now and then I talk to her a little, and she answers me in her way. So perhaps when she hears my voice talking to you, she thinks it is to her.”

Just then Magpie gave a very big switch Mary laughed.

“Do you know,” she said, “I believe she means to be very polite to me. I think that is why she switches her tail and cocks her ears to-day, and she wants us to know.”

Miss Verity laughed too.

“I daresay you are right,” she said. “And now, Mary,” she went on, “keep your eyes open even wider than usual, for Dove’s Nest comes in sight all of a sudden.”

Mary’s face sparkled with eagerness. She glanced about her from side to side, and at last there came in view a stop in the hedge at the left side, which, as they got quite close, proved to be the entrance to a fairly wide grassy lane; and a little way farther on a white gate was to be seen, or rather the white posts at each side, for the gate itself was hooked back among the green bushes, so as to leave the entrance open.

“Here we are,” said Miss Verity, and as Magpie turned in, her mistress allowed her to go slowly, which the piebald never objected to, even at her own door, so as to let the little guest have a good first sight of the house and garden.

It—the house, I mean—really was rather like a nest. The stone it was built of was a soft browny-grey colour, and the carefully-trained ivy had grown over it so prettily that even the colour of the walls was shaded and in some places hidden by the rich dark green. And as Mary gazed, a funny fancy came into her head that the windows, which were always kept very bright and clean, were like kind twinkling eyes looking out to welcome you. There was a cosy-looking porch, the roof of which was thatched in a queer fancy way; it looked like moss, and made one think still more what a good name Dove’s Nest was for the house.

“I think it’s lovely,” said Mary, after she had taken a very good look at it all, “lovely and sweet.”

Miss Verity seemed pleased. I think it is very nice to say pleasant things to our friends when they want to please us. It is a stupid, selfish kind of shyness that makes children—and big people, too, sometimes—keep back from saying something pretty and admiring, even when they really feel it and would like to say it. And afterwards, perhaps, when it is too late, or the chance is gone, one wishes one had said the pleasant little thing.

Yes, a great deal of the sweetness of life depends on very little things. A smile or a loving look, or a word or two of pleasure and admiration are like roses and honeysuckle in the hedges.

“I hope you will like it inside as much as outside,” said Miss Verity.

“I’m sure I shall,” Mary replied.

And so she did. It would be difficult to describe the whole house, of course, but I must tell you how pretty the drawing-room was. It was almost quite round, with windows at one side, and the fire-place, in which a nice bright fire was burning, underneath the middle window, so that while sitting in front of it and feeling as warm as a toast, you could glance up to the sky, and see the trees moving in the wind and the birds flying across, while the creepers, twined round the panes, nodded at you in a friendly way.

Below the other windows, which were not so high up, were cushioned seats, very tempting, as from them one could see the prettiest parts of the garden and the many birds, who at all seasons of the year had been encouraged by Miss Verity’s kindness to look upon Dove’s Nest as a home of pleasure and safety. The rest of the room was very pretty too, though just a little old-fashioned. There were not quite so many sofas and low chairs and cushions as one sees in drawing-rooms nowadays, for when Miss Verity was young such things were considered only suitable for quite old people or invalids, and Mary’s godmother was certainly not an invalid, and did not feel herself very old either, though her hair was so white.

But Mary’s eyes travelled at once to the windows, and she darted across the room to look out.

“Oh, how nice!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely lawn, and what dear little birds hopping about!”

“I am so glad you like it,” said Miss Verity, “for your room at one side looks out the same way. My own room is over this, the birds and I say ‘How-do-you-do?’ to each other every morning. Shall we go upstairs at once for you to take off your hat and jacket, and then we can have tea.”

Mary was delighted to follow Miss Verity, for Pleasance’s description had made her eager to see her own corner of Dove’s Nest. Her godmother crossed the square hall and opened a door which led into another little hall or anteroom, from which a wide shallow-stepped staircase led to the next floor.

Here they found themselves in a long passage—Miss Verity walked on quickly, passing two or three doors, and stopping for a moment at one which was slightly open.

“That is my room,” she said, and Mary, glancing in, saw the same round shape with windows at one side as downstairs, “and yours,” Miss Verity went on, “is really almost next it, though I daresay you would not have guessed it, as it seems a long way off.”

Then she opened another door, a little farther on, and to Mary’s surprise and pleasure a second staircase came in sight. This time it was a narrow “twisty-turny” one, leading up into a kind of turret at one end of the house. This turret was so covered with ivy and other evergreen, or almost evergreen, creepers, that from the outside it was scarcely to be distinguished from the mass of trees in the background. The staircase was not high, as the house was really only a two-storied one, but when Miss Verity got to the top there was another door to open, then a short passage, at one end of which were a few steps leading to a small landing, nearly all window, and at the other end two or three steps down again into another little landing, almost like a room, and across this at last, Mary’s own “nest.”

A charming nest it was—no little girl could have helped being delighted with it Miss Verity was rewarded for the trouble she had taken to make it nice for Mary by the look on her god-daughter’s face, and the cry of pleasure that she gave.

There was a little bed in one corner, with pink and white curtains at the head, a dressing-table to match, and a wicker-work chair with cushions covered with the same dimity. And all the furniture was light and small, so as to leave plenty of room for moving about Mary’s trunk had already been brought in, and when she had time to notice it Mary wondered how the servants had got it up the tiny staircase. But just at first, the thing that caught her eyes was the view from one of the windows. No, one can scarcely call it a “view,” a “look-out” is a better word, for, as Pleasance had told her, it was really into the trees. Standing there you almost felt as if you were living in a tree yourself. And after a happy glance round, Mary flew to this window.

“It is all lovely,” she said, “but this is the nicest of everything.”

The window was half open. Miss Verity followed her to it, and laid her hand on Mary’s shoulder.

“Listen,” she said.

And then from the depths of the dark green shade came, what to Mary was almost the sweetest sound in the world,—“Coo-coo,” and again “Coo-coo,” as if in reply.

“It is the wood-pigeons,” said Miss Verity, and the little girl smiled to herself at her godmother thinking she did not know. “Isn’t it sweet? I have never heard them so near as the last few days. Just as if it was to welcome you, Mary!”

And at this Mary’s smile almost turned into a laugh.

Then Miss Verity opened a door in a corner which Mary had not seen before, and again there was a short flight of steps, leading downwards.

“This is the near way into my room,” said her godmother, “so you will never feel lonely. If you tap at the second door,” for there was one at the foot of the steps as well as at the top, “I shall always hear you. Sometimes the door is locked, but I will keep it unfastened while you are here. It is so now, as your trunk has been brought through this way. Now, take off your things, dear, and come down to tea. You will find it and me waiting for you in the drawing-room.”

And so saying she went on into her own room. Mary ran back and took off her things as quickly as she could. But before she went downstairs, she could not resist standing a moment at “the forest window” as she had, in her own mind, begun to call it.

“Cooies,” she said softly, “dear Cooies, if it is you—my Cooies—that I heard just now—do you know that I have come?”

And from a little distance, a little farther off than they had seemed before, came the reply—at least Mary felt sure that it was one,—

“Coo-coo,” and again, “Coo-coo.”

She could not stay longer just then, but she felt very happy indeed, as she made her way down the cork-screw staircase and along the passages and downstairs again to the drawing-room. She could scarcely help singing as she went, and her face looked so bright as she came into the room that her godmother thought to herself that it was quite a mistake of Mary’s aunt to have written to her that the little girl would most likely be very grave and shy at first.

I don’t think Mary ever enjoyed anything more than that first tea with Miss Verity. She was very hungry, to begin with, and everything tasted delicious, and the room was so cosy and yet fresh, with little flutters of air and scent from the garden outside, as one window was a tiny bit open. And there were pretty autumn posies here and there in china bowls about the room, the faint fragrance from which mingled with that of dried rose-leaves and lavender, which the house had never been without since Miss Verity’s grandmother had come to live there as a bride, long, long ago.

All these things joined to make Mary feel very happy, though she did not think of them all separately, but behind everything in her mind was the looking forward to seeing her dear Cooies again. She gave one of her little sighs of content, which her godmother quite understood, though she did not seem to notice it.

When tea was over, Miss Verity proposed that Mary should go up to her room again, to see Pleasance unpack her trunk, and explain about her things.

“I have dinner at seven o’clock,” she said, “which is of course earlier than your uncle and aunt dine, so I have got leave for you to dine with me, or at least to sit at table with me, though you will not care to have much to eat.”

“No, I couldn’t be very hungry, so soon after tea,” said Mary, gravely, “but sometimes when auntie was alone, I have been at her dinner, and she gave me a little soup, and pudding, and fruit.”

“Yes,” said Miss Verity, “that is just what I mean.” Then Mary went up to her turret, where Pleasance was already busy, and showed the maid which were her best frocks, and sashes, and hair-ribbons, and everything, and herself arranged the few books, and writing things, and little treasures she had brought with her. There was a small bookcase all ready, on which stood some tempting little volumes that Miss Verity had looked out for her.

And through all the pleasant little bustle of the unpacking there came to Mary’s ears every now and then the sound they were so ready to hear, of “coo-coo,” “coo-coo.”

But she was not alone in her room again at all that evening, for Pleasance came to dress her for dinner, and to help her to undress for the night—not at least, till after she was in bed. And she did not dare to get up and open the window after the maid had gone, for Pleasance had told her it was raining, and that she had therefore shut both windows closely.

“It would never do for you to catch cold here,” she said, “otherwise your auntie would not let you come again.”

So Mary had to console herself by thinking that most likely the Cooies were fast asleep, and by hoping that the next day would be fine and mild.

And so it was!

Mary slept very soundly. When she woke it was already full daylight, and some bright though pale rays of sunshine were creeping in at the side of the blinds and sparkling on the pretty flowery paper of the walls. She rubbed her eyes and could not, for a moment or two, remember where she was—you know the queer, rather interesting, puzzled feeling one has, the first morning in a strange place? and then by degrees it all came back to her, and up she jumped and ran to the window. But it was cold, so she very wisely peeped out for a moment only, just to satisfy herself that it was a fine day, and then hopped into bed again.

She had not long to wait before there came a knock at the door, followed by Pleasance and a younger servant with a big can of water for her bath.

“Wide-awake already, Miss Mary?” said the maid, in her kind cheerful voice. “Well, I am glad it is a nice morning for you; the rain last night was only a heavy shower after all, for the trees are scarcely wet and the birds are chirping away as if it was the spring.”

“And are the pigeons cooing?” asked Mary.

“You may be sure of that,” said Pleasance. “They are always the first to be heard about here, though I’ve never known them to roost so near the house as this last week or two. I’ll unfasten the window bolt, so that you can push it open a bit after you’ve had your bath, and listen to them. It is sweet, like wishing you a happy day.”

“I’m sure I am going to have a happy day,” said Mary, jumping out of bed.

You may be sure her bath did not take very long that day. She was soon dressed; at least enough to open the window as Pleasance had proposed, and while finishing her morning “toilet,” she listened for the familiar sounds she was hoping to hear.

Yes—she was not disappointed—they came, the sweet caressing “coo-coo,” ever nearer and nearer, till at last, just as Mary was fastening her belt, a little flutter close at hand was followed by the alighting of two feathered figures on her window-sill. One glance told her they were her own Cooies.

“Oh, you darlings,” she exclaimed, “how sweet of you to come the first morning! How did you find out I was here?”

Mr Coo glanced round him cautiously, before he replied.

“Ah,” he said, “we have ways and means of getting news that would surprise you. There is more truth in the old saying, ‘a little bird told me,’ than the people who use it in jest have any idea of. Did we not tell you, dear Mary, that we should meet again before along?”

“Yes, yes, indeed you did,” said Mary, “and I believed you, you see. Auntie would not have forced me to come, but when I heard of Levin Forest, I felt sure you knew about my godmother living here, and so I said I’d like to come.”

“Just so,” said Mr Coo, and “just so,” Mrs Coo repeated.