Chapter Four.

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’msurehe 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 rememberher, 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 Iwouldlike to go to my godmother’s.”Her aunt was pleased, though rather puzzled at the sudden change.“Sheisa 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.”“Ishouldlike 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.“Theymust 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 notverysorry 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. NotmyCooies; 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 alwayssomethinginteresting 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 averypleasant, 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 notaskedto 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.Couldit be her own Cooies’ voices that Pleasance had heard? It was almost too lovely to hope for.“Ilovewood-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 thePilgrim’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—aboutverywhite 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 notbad-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.

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’msurehe 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 rememberher, 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 Iwouldlike to go to my godmother’s.”

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

“Sheisa 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.”

“Ishouldlike 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.

“Theymust 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 notverysorry 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. NotmyCooies; 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 alwayssomethinginteresting 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 averypleasant, 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 notaskedto 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.Couldit be her own Cooies’ voices that Pleasance had heard? It was almost too lovely to hope for.

“Ilovewood-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 thePilgrim’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—aboutverywhite 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 notbad-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 tome. 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 onehadsaid 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 herselfveryold 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, “isreallyalmost 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,thething 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 reallyintothe 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—myCooies—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. Itissweet, 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.“We would have flown here last night to welcome you,” Mr Coo went on, “but we thought you might be tired.”“And it came on to rain,” added Mrs Coo, “and we did not wish to be wet and draggle-tailed for our first visit.”“No, it would have been a pity,” said Mary, “and you are both looking so pretty. I could fancy you had got all new feathers. I never noticed before, howverywhite your neck ones are, just like beautiful clean collars. And what pretty rainbowy colours you have below them.”Both the Cooies cocked their heads on one side; they liked to be admired.“You have never seen us to advantage before,” said Mrs Coo. “Near a town it is impossible to keep one’s feathers so fresh.”“Talking of white feathers,” began Mr Coo, but he stopped suddenly, as just then the breakfast-bell rang. “We will come again,” he said, “we have a great deal to tell you, Mary.”“We want to do all we can to make you enjoy yourself,” said Mrs Coo.“How kind of you!” said Mary. “And when will you come again?”“I think,” said Mr Coo, “the best plan will be for us to have a signal. We roost very near here. If you stand at the window and say ‘cooie, cooie,’ we are pretty sure to hear you.”“All right,” said Mary, “and thank you so much. I wonder what you are going to tell me about white feathers.”She ran off, and the Cooies flew away.“I think,” said Mrs Coo, “I think it would be best for the Queen herself to tell Mary about the competition—that is to say if we succeed in getting an invitation for her. So I was not very sorry that you were interrupted, Mr Coo. I think you should consult me before speaking of anything so important to the dear child.”Mr Coo seemed rather snubbed, but he was always ready to acknowledge Mrs Coo’s good sense.“In future I will do so, my dear,” he replied politely.

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 tome. 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 onehadsaid 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 herselfveryold 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, “isreallyalmost 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,thething 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 reallyintothe 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—myCooies—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. Itissweet, 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.

“We would have flown here last night to welcome you,” Mr Coo went on, “but we thought you might be tired.”

“And it came on to rain,” added Mrs Coo, “and we did not wish to be wet and draggle-tailed for our first visit.”

“No, it would have been a pity,” said Mary, “and you are both looking so pretty. I could fancy you had got all new feathers. I never noticed before, howverywhite your neck ones are, just like beautiful clean collars. And what pretty rainbowy colours you have below them.”

Both the Cooies cocked their heads on one side; they liked to be admired.

“You have never seen us to advantage before,” said Mrs Coo. “Near a town it is impossible to keep one’s feathers so fresh.”

“Talking of white feathers,” began Mr Coo, but he stopped suddenly, as just then the breakfast-bell rang. “We will come again,” he said, “we have a great deal to tell you, Mary.”

“We want to do all we can to make you enjoy yourself,” said Mrs Coo.

“How kind of you!” said Mary. “And when will you come again?”

“I think,” said Mr Coo, “the best plan will be for us to have a signal. We roost very near here. If you stand at the window and say ‘cooie, cooie,’ we are pretty sure to hear you.”

“All right,” said Mary, “and thank you so much. I wonder what you are going to tell me about white feathers.”

She ran off, and the Cooies flew away.

“I think,” said Mrs Coo, “I think it would be best for the Queen herself to tell Mary about the competition—that is to say if we succeed in getting an invitation for her. So I was not very sorry that you were interrupted, Mr Coo. I think you should consult me before speaking of anything so important to the dear child.”

Mr Coo seemed rather snubbed, but he was always ready to acknowledge Mrs Coo’s good sense.

“In future I will do so, my dear,” he replied politely.

Chapter Six.“The Soft Rush of Many Little Wings.”After breakfast Miss Verity turned to Mary.“Let us talk over our plans a little,” she said.“I like making plans,” Mary replied, and in her own mind she added, “it would be a good thing to know what my godmother wants me to do every day, for then I could tell the Cooies the most likely times for me to be at the window.”“That is a good thing,” said Miss Verity, smiling. “I will give you an idea of how I usually spend the day. Of course it changes a little between summer and winter, but just now it is rather between the two. Well, as a rule, I am busy about house things for an hour or so after breakfast, and then I generally take a stroll round the garden and go to see the ponies, andthenI write letters or read till luncheon. In the afternoon I go a drive—once or twice a week I pay calls, and once or twice I go to see some of the cottage people; of course if they are ill or in trouble and I know of it, I go oftener.”“May I come with you when you go to the cottages?” Mary asked. “I like to see the funny little rooms, and sometimes there are such nice babies. But,” she went on half timidly, “I’d rather not payladycalls. Auntie takes me with her sometimes, but I generally wait for her outside in the carriage.”“I will not take you to pay any ‘lady calls’ where you would feel strange or shy,” said Miss Verity, “but at one or two of my friends, there are children whom you would like—about your own age.”“Ye-es,” Mary replied, rather doubtfully, “but, please, godmother, I should be quite happy here with just you. And sometimes mayn’t I go a little walk alone in the forest?”Miss Verity considered.“Yes,” she said, “I don’t see any reason why you should not. It is perfectly safe: there are no tramps or gypsies about here. I will take you there once or twice myself and explain the paths a little, so that there would be no fear of your losing your way. And now I shall be busy for an hour, or half-an-hour any way. After that we can stroll about a little together.”“And then?” said Mary.“Then,” said Miss Verity, with her half comical smile, “supposing we do some lessons? I promised your auntie that I would read French with you, as I have been more accustomed to it than she herself or your governess.”“Would you like me to learn some French by heart to say to you?” asked Mary. She wanted to please her godmother, for she felt how very kind she was, and I think too, she wanted Miss Verity to see that she could be trusted, so that she could now and then be free to talk to her Cooies.“And perhaps,” she thought, “perhapsI may meet them in the wood and see where they live, and see some more Cooies—their cousins. Thatwouldbe lovely.”“I should like it very much indeed,” said Miss Verity. “I have a dear little book of the old fables—La Fontaine’s—oh, by the bye, it is up in your room. And I know how fond you are of animals, so—”“Oh,” exclaimed Mary, and she looked so bright and eager that Miss Verity did not mind her interrupting. “Iknow what you mean. I have learnt one or two. I’ll run upstairs now and find the book, and may I choose a fable?”“Certainly, dear,” said her godmother.So Mary hastened to her turret, where she soon discovered the fat little old-fashioned volume. Then she chose one fable—not a very long one, but I am afraid I don’t remember which it was—and settled herself in the corner of the drawing-room, which, like her own window, looked out towards the forest, to learn two or three verses by heart.From time to time she glanced out—with a half idea that perhaps she might catch sight of the wood-pigeons.“They are so clever,” she said to herself, “that if they saw me learning my lessons they would quite understand I mustn’t be interrupted. But it would be nice just to feel that they were peeping at me through the branches.”She neither heard nor saw anything of them that morning, however. But she now trusted them too much to have any fear of their forgetting her.And by the time Miss Verity came in from her house-keeping duties, Mary’s two or three verses were perfectly learnt.“But I will not hear them just yet,” said her godmother, “put on your hat and jacket, and come out with me to see how the ponies are this morning.”The ponies seemed to Mary even more lovable in the stable than in harness. They both seemed to know their mistress so well, and rubbed their heads against her in the most affectionate way. And when she said to Magpie that she must make friends with Mary too, Magpie really turned her head round and gazed at Mary with her big brown eyes as if she quite understood.Then Mary gave her and Jackdaw a lump of sugar each, which they seemed to enjoy very much, and after that Miss Verity took her round the kitchen garden and the little poultry-yard, and even to pay a visit to the pig-sty, where lived two fat little pink pigs, looking cleaner, Mary said, than any pigs she had ever seen before.And just as they were going into the house again Miss Verity stood still for a moment.“Listen,” she said, “is it not pretty?” and then came to their ears the sweet sounds so familiar to Mary—“Coo-coo, Coo-coo.”Mary’s eyes sparkled. She felt sure the voices were those of her own little friends.Lessons hardly seemed lessons at Dove’s Nest. Miss Verity had such an interesting way of explaining things, and seeming as if she herself enjoyed what they talked about. Yet she was very particular too, and I think that sensible children like to feel that their teachersareparticular, just as sensible ponies like to feel that the person holding the reins knows how to drive. She was not satisfied with Mary’s being able to repeat the fable rightly till she had gone through it with her and saw that she understood it all quite thoroughly, and then she corrected some of Mary’s pronunciation, which made it all sound ever so much prettier. After that, there was a sort of geography lesson, as Mary was very anxious to see on the map exactly where her dear Michael was going to, and how he would get there, so that the time passed so quickly that Mary could scarcely believe when her godmother looked at her watch and exclaimed—“My dear child, it is one o’clock, and we have luncheon at a quarter past! Auntie would think I was giving you far too many lessons.”“No, no, she wouldn’t,” said Mary, laughing and shaking back her curls, which had tumbled over her eyes while she was bending to look at the atlas. “Auntie would be very pleased, for it doesn’t seem a bit like lessons. It is almost as nice as hearing stories.”At luncheon, which was of course Mary’s real dinner, her godmother began talking about what they should do that afternoon.“Would you rather drive or go a walk?” she said. Mary was burning with eagerness to explore the forest a little. She knew that till Miss Verity was satisfied that there would be no fear of her losing her way among the trees she could not hope for leave to wander about by herself.“I woulddreadfullylike to see the forest,” she said, “but of course—”She was going to say that she would be pleased to do whatever her godmother thought best, but she felt rather shy. Miss Verity considered for a minute or two, then,—“I think we had better doboth,” she said. “Both drive and walk. Magpie needs some exercise, and I want to ask how an old friend of mine is, who lives too far off to walk there; though her house too is on the edge of the forest. That will take us about an hour and a half, so if we start at a quarter past two we shall still have time for a wander on this side of the woods before it gets too chilly and dusk.”“Thank you,” said Mary. In her heart she felt rather disappointed that she would have no time, or very little, that day to see her Cooies, but still, after all, it was a great thing to see something of the forest and get leave, perhaps, to stroll about there by herself.“Andpossibly,” she thought, “we may meet them. Godmother would not know them, but I am sureIwould, and they could not feel frightened of her when she is so sweet and kind.”She was ready in good time, and waiting at the door when Miss Verity came downstairs. It was really quite curious to see how Magpie pricked up her ears the moment she heard her mistress’s voice, and the very slightest touch on the reins was enough to tell her which way she was to go or to hurry her up a little if she were jogging along too deliberately.It was a pretty drive—indeed, Mary thought that all the drives about there were pretty—and quite in a different direction from the way they had come the day before. And when Miss Verity went in to see her friend who was ill, Mary strolled about the garden by herself. It was a nice garden, but not to be compared with the one at Dove’s Nest, Mary thought, and there did not seem to be nearly so many birds hopping about, or chirping in the trees. She felt very glad that her godmother did not stay long, as, though she tried not to be impatient, she was very eager indeed to go back for the promised walk in the forest.And Magpie seemed to understand, or so Mary fancied, though most likely it was that she knew she was going home, for she did not require any sort of cheering up to go quickly, but trotted along as fast as Miss Verity would let her.The man-servant was waiting for them at the door, so Mary jumped out at once and glanced up at her godmother.“Yes, dear,” said Miss Verity, in reply to the unspoken words, “yes, I have not forgotten. Tell Myrtle,”—Myrtle was the parlour-maid—“to have tea ready for us in an hour,” she added, turning to the man. She looked up at the sky as she spoke. “Yes,” she went on, “I think we can safely stay out three-quarters of an hour or so before it gets too chilly. And it is not going to rain.”Mary trotted along beside her godmother in silent satisfaction, though beneath her quiet appearance she was bubbling over with excitement.To get into the forest—into a real big forest!—and above all, the forest where her Cooies lived—she could imagine nothing more interesting. And though she had felt disappointed at not getting there earlier in the day, she could not help agreeing with Miss Verity when, after a minute or two’s silence on her side too, she said,—“The forest, to my mind, is always fascinating, but after all, I don’t know that you could make acquaintance with it better than on an afternoon like this. The autumn feeling, this sort of almost solemn quiet, without wind, and the light already beginning to fade—all adds to the mystery of it. And the mystery is one of the greatest charms of a forest.” She stood still for a moment. They had entered the trees’ home by the little path from the garden—a private way of Miss Verity’s, though there was a gate which could be locked when she thought well, in case of tramps, though one of the nice things about Dove’s Nest was that tramps very seldom came that way—and by which you found yourself in quite a thick part of the wood almost at once. Mary stood still too, listening and gazing. I think her godmother had forgotten that she was talking to a child, but it did not matter—Mary understood.And when she did speak, her words showed this. “Mystery means secrets, doesn’t it?” she said. “Nice secrets. Yes, it does feel like that. The trees look as if they talked to each other when there is nobody there.”Her godmother smiled.“And when there is a little wind,” she said as they walked on again, “up among their tops, it looks still more as if they were talking and nodding to each other over their secrets. It is really quite comical. Then another charming thing in a forest is when the sunshine comes through in quivering rays, lighting up the green till it looks like emeralds. That is more in the spring-time—when the new leaves are coming out. But there is no end to the beauties of a forest. It is never two days quite the same. I daresay you will always remember this grey day the best—one seldom forgets the first impression, as it is called, of a place, however many different feelings one may come to have about it afterwards, and—”But a sudden little joyful exclamation from Mary interrupted her.“Look, godmother, look!” she cried, and she pointed before them; “just what you were saying.”The sun was setting, and some very clear rays had pierced through the grey, and right in front made a network of the branches against the brightness. It was very pretty, and rare too, so late in the day and in the year. They both stood still to admire.“How dark the trees look where the light stops,” said Mary. “Are they thicker there?”“Yes,” Miss Verity replied. “That is a part that I call to myself one of the forest’s secrets. For some reason the trees are allowed to grow very thick there, and it is impossible to get in among them without tearing one’s clothes and scratching one’s face and hands. But it is a favourite haunt of the birds. I often stand near there to watch them flying in and out—pigeons especially. I could fancy it was a very favourite meeting-place for them. You can hear their murmuring voices even now.”Mary held her breath to listen. They were at some little distance from the spot her godmother was speaking of, and though the cooing was to be heard, it sounded muffled and less distinct than she had ever noticed it before. The foliage, of which a good deal still remained on the trees, dulled the sound.“It seems as if they were talking in whispers,” she said to her godmother, smiling.“Or as if they were all half asleep,” Miss Verity added, “which I daresay they are. It is getting late, Mary; the light will soon be gone, and we have walked farther than you would think. We had better turn.”They did so. Mary took good notice, by her godmother’s wish, of the paths they came by. Not that there was any real fear of her getting lost in the forest, but it was better for her to know her way about.“That dark place can be seen so far off,” said Mary, “that I should always know pretty well whereabouts I was.”“I think,” said Miss Verity, “I think I shall tell Pleasance to ring the big bell for you, if you are strolling about alone, and it is getting time for you to come in. You can hear it a long way off—farther off than you would ever care to go: sounds carry far in the forest.”“That would be a very good plan,” said Mary, thinking to herself that it would be lovely to get the “run” of the forest, so as sometimes to meet her Cooies without fear of interruption.They walked on, not speaking much. Mary was thinking of her feathered friends, and her godmother, from living so much alone, perhaps, was at no times a great talker. And the evening feeling in the air—theautumnevening feeling—seemed to make one silent. The feeling that children sometimes describe as being “as if we were in church.”And then through the cool clear air came a soft rushing sound—nearer and nearer. There is no sound quite like it—the soft rush of many little wings. Without saying anything to each other, Mary and Miss Verity stood still and listened, looking upwards.“It is the wood-pigeons,” said Miss Verity; “but what a quantity! I have often seen them flying together in the evening—going home, I suppose, but never so many together. And they are coming from the dark planting, as it is called. I have often wondered if they roosted there, but it does not look like it.”Mary gazed still—even after her godmother had walked on a few paces; and just as she was turning to run after her, a sound still nearer at hand stopped her again. One of the birds had swooped downwards, and its murmured “coo-coo” made her stop.“Mary,” said the little voice, “be at your window early to-morrow morning. We want to talk to you.”“Yes,” whispered Mary in return; “yes, Cooie, dear, I will be there.”And then, full of pleasure, she hastened to overtake her godmother.“You are not cold, dear, at all, are you?” Miss Verity asked.“Oh no, not the least, thank you,” said Mary. “I’m just—” and she gave a little skip.“What?” asked her godmother, smiling.“As happy asanything” replied Mary, with another hop.Miss Verity smiled with pleasure.“I think Levinside is the beautifulest place in the world,” said Mary. “And oh, godmother, I do hope you will let me go about here in the forest by myself. IknowI won’t get lost.”“I don’t think you would,” said Miss Verity. “I have a feeling that the forest is half a fairy place. I don’t think any harm could come to you in it.”

After breakfast Miss Verity turned to Mary.

“Let us talk over our plans a little,” she said.

“I like making plans,” Mary replied, and in her own mind she added, “it would be a good thing to know what my godmother wants me to do every day, for then I could tell the Cooies the most likely times for me to be at the window.”

“That is a good thing,” said Miss Verity, smiling. “I will give you an idea of how I usually spend the day. Of course it changes a little between summer and winter, but just now it is rather between the two. Well, as a rule, I am busy about house things for an hour or so after breakfast, and then I generally take a stroll round the garden and go to see the ponies, andthenI write letters or read till luncheon. In the afternoon I go a drive—once or twice a week I pay calls, and once or twice I go to see some of the cottage people; of course if they are ill or in trouble and I know of it, I go oftener.”

“May I come with you when you go to the cottages?” Mary asked. “I like to see the funny little rooms, and sometimes there are such nice babies. But,” she went on half timidly, “I’d rather not payladycalls. Auntie takes me with her sometimes, but I generally wait for her outside in the carriage.”

“I will not take you to pay any ‘lady calls’ where you would feel strange or shy,” said Miss Verity, “but at one or two of my friends, there are children whom you would like—about your own age.”

“Ye-es,” Mary replied, rather doubtfully, “but, please, godmother, I should be quite happy here with just you. And sometimes mayn’t I go a little walk alone in the forest?”

Miss Verity considered.

“Yes,” she said, “I don’t see any reason why you should not. It is perfectly safe: there are no tramps or gypsies about here. I will take you there once or twice myself and explain the paths a little, so that there would be no fear of your losing your way. And now I shall be busy for an hour, or half-an-hour any way. After that we can stroll about a little together.”

“And then?” said Mary.

“Then,” said Miss Verity, with her half comical smile, “supposing we do some lessons? I promised your auntie that I would read French with you, as I have been more accustomed to it than she herself or your governess.”

“Would you like me to learn some French by heart to say to you?” asked Mary. She wanted to please her godmother, for she felt how very kind she was, and I think too, she wanted Miss Verity to see that she could be trusted, so that she could now and then be free to talk to her Cooies.

“And perhaps,” she thought, “perhapsI may meet them in the wood and see where they live, and see some more Cooies—their cousins. Thatwouldbe lovely.”

“I should like it very much indeed,” said Miss Verity. “I have a dear little book of the old fables—La Fontaine’s—oh, by the bye, it is up in your room. And I know how fond you are of animals, so—”

“Oh,” exclaimed Mary, and she looked so bright and eager that Miss Verity did not mind her interrupting. “Iknow what you mean. I have learnt one or two. I’ll run upstairs now and find the book, and may I choose a fable?”

“Certainly, dear,” said her godmother.

So Mary hastened to her turret, where she soon discovered the fat little old-fashioned volume. Then she chose one fable—not a very long one, but I am afraid I don’t remember which it was—and settled herself in the corner of the drawing-room, which, like her own window, looked out towards the forest, to learn two or three verses by heart.

From time to time she glanced out—with a half idea that perhaps she might catch sight of the wood-pigeons.

“They are so clever,” she said to herself, “that if they saw me learning my lessons they would quite understand I mustn’t be interrupted. But it would be nice just to feel that they were peeping at me through the branches.”

She neither heard nor saw anything of them that morning, however. But she now trusted them too much to have any fear of their forgetting her.

And by the time Miss Verity came in from her house-keeping duties, Mary’s two or three verses were perfectly learnt.

“But I will not hear them just yet,” said her godmother, “put on your hat and jacket, and come out with me to see how the ponies are this morning.”

The ponies seemed to Mary even more lovable in the stable than in harness. They both seemed to know their mistress so well, and rubbed their heads against her in the most affectionate way. And when she said to Magpie that she must make friends with Mary too, Magpie really turned her head round and gazed at Mary with her big brown eyes as if she quite understood.

Then Mary gave her and Jackdaw a lump of sugar each, which they seemed to enjoy very much, and after that Miss Verity took her round the kitchen garden and the little poultry-yard, and even to pay a visit to the pig-sty, where lived two fat little pink pigs, looking cleaner, Mary said, than any pigs she had ever seen before.

And just as they were going into the house again Miss Verity stood still for a moment.

“Listen,” she said, “is it not pretty?” and then came to their ears the sweet sounds so familiar to Mary—

“Coo-coo, Coo-coo.”

Mary’s eyes sparkled. She felt sure the voices were those of her own little friends.

Lessons hardly seemed lessons at Dove’s Nest. Miss Verity had such an interesting way of explaining things, and seeming as if she herself enjoyed what they talked about. Yet she was very particular too, and I think that sensible children like to feel that their teachersareparticular, just as sensible ponies like to feel that the person holding the reins knows how to drive. She was not satisfied with Mary’s being able to repeat the fable rightly till she had gone through it with her and saw that she understood it all quite thoroughly, and then she corrected some of Mary’s pronunciation, which made it all sound ever so much prettier. After that, there was a sort of geography lesson, as Mary was very anxious to see on the map exactly where her dear Michael was going to, and how he would get there, so that the time passed so quickly that Mary could scarcely believe when her godmother looked at her watch and exclaimed—

“My dear child, it is one o’clock, and we have luncheon at a quarter past! Auntie would think I was giving you far too many lessons.”

“No, no, she wouldn’t,” said Mary, laughing and shaking back her curls, which had tumbled over her eyes while she was bending to look at the atlas. “Auntie would be very pleased, for it doesn’t seem a bit like lessons. It is almost as nice as hearing stories.”

At luncheon, which was of course Mary’s real dinner, her godmother began talking about what they should do that afternoon.

“Would you rather drive or go a walk?” she said. Mary was burning with eagerness to explore the forest a little. She knew that till Miss Verity was satisfied that there would be no fear of her losing her way among the trees she could not hope for leave to wander about by herself.

“I woulddreadfullylike to see the forest,” she said, “but of course—”

She was going to say that she would be pleased to do whatever her godmother thought best, but she felt rather shy. Miss Verity considered for a minute or two, then,—

“I think we had better doboth,” she said. “Both drive and walk. Magpie needs some exercise, and I want to ask how an old friend of mine is, who lives too far off to walk there; though her house too is on the edge of the forest. That will take us about an hour and a half, so if we start at a quarter past two we shall still have time for a wander on this side of the woods before it gets too chilly and dusk.”

“Thank you,” said Mary. In her heart she felt rather disappointed that she would have no time, or very little, that day to see her Cooies, but still, after all, it was a great thing to see something of the forest and get leave, perhaps, to stroll about there by herself.

“Andpossibly,” she thought, “we may meet them. Godmother would not know them, but I am sureIwould, and they could not feel frightened of her when she is so sweet and kind.”

She was ready in good time, and waiting at the door when Miss Verity came downstairs. It was really quite curious to see how Magpie pricked up her ears the moment she heard her mistress’s voice, and the very slightest touch on the reins was enough to tell her which way she was to go or to hurry her up a little if she were jogging along too deliberately.

It was a pretty drive—indeed, Mary thought that all the drives about there were pretty—and quite in a different direction from the way they had come the day before. And when Miss Verity went in to see her friend who was ill, Mary strolled about the garden by herself. It was a nice garden, but not to be compared with the one at Dove’s Nest, Mary thought, and there did not seem to be nearly so many birds hopping about, or chirping in the trees. She felt very glad that her godmother did not stay long, as, though she tried not to be impatient, she was very eager indeed to go back for the promised walk in the forest.

And Magpie seemed to understand, or so Mary fancied, though most likely it was that she knew she was going home, for she did not require any sort of cheering up to go quickly, but trotted along as fast as Miss Verity would let her.

The man-servant was waiting for them at the door, so Mary jumped out at once and glanced up at her godmother.

“Yes, dear,” said Miss Verity, in reply to the unspoken words, “yes, I have not forgotten. Tell Myrtle,”—Myrtle was the parlour-maid—“to have tea ready for us in an hour,” she added, turning to the man. She looked up at the sky as she spoke. “Yes,” she went on, “I think we can safely stay out three-quarters of an hour or so before it gets too chilly. And it is not going to rain.”

Mary trotted along beside her godmother in silent satisfaction, though beneath her quiet appearance she was bubbling over with excitement.

To get into the forest—into a real big forest!—and above all, the forest where her Cooies lived—she could imagine nothing more interesting. And though she had felt disappointed at not getting there earlier in the day, she could not help agreeing with Miss Verity when, after a minute or two’s silence on her side too, she said,—

“The forest, to my mind, is always fascinating, but after all, I don’t know that you could make acquaintance with it better than on an afternoon like this. The autumn feeling, this sort of almost solemn quiet, without wind, and the light already beginning to fade—all adds to the mystery of it. And the mystery is one of the greatest charms of a forest.” She stood still for a moment. They had entered the trees’ home by the little path from the garden—a private way of Miss Verity’s, though there was a gate which could be locked when she thought well, in case of tramps, though one of the nice things about Dove’s Nest was that tramps very seldom came that way—and by which you found yourself in quite a thick part of the wood almost at once. Mary stood still too, listening and gazing. I think her godmother had forgotten that she was talking to a child, but it did not matter—Mary understood.

And when she did speak, her words showed this. “Mystery means secrets, doesn’t it?” she said. “Nice secrets. Yes, it does feel like that. The trees look as if they talked to each other when there is nobody there.”

Her godmother smiled.

“And when there is a little wind,” she said as they walked on again, “up among their tops, it looks still more as if they were talking and nodding to each other over their secrets. It is really quite comical. Then another charming thing in a forest is when the sunshine comes through in quivering rays, lighting up the green till it looks like emeralds. That is more in the spring-time—when the new leaves are coming out. But there is no end to the beauties of a forest. It is never two days quite the same. I daresay you will always remember this grey day the best—one seldom forgets the first impression, as it is called, of a place, however many different feelings one may come to have about it afterwards, and—”

But a sudden little joyful exclamation from Mary interrupted her.

“Look, godmother, look!” she cried, and she pointed before them; “just what you were saying.”

The sun was setting, and some very clear rays had pierced through the grey, and right in front made a network of the branches against the brightness. It was very pretty, and rare too, so late in the day and in the year. They both stood still to admire.

“How dark the trees look where the light stops,” said Mary. “Are they thicker there?”

“Yes,” Miss Verity replied. “That is a part that I call to myself one of the forest’s secrets. For some reason the trees are allowed to grow very thick there, and it is impossible to get in among them without tearing one’s clothes and scratching one’s face and hands. But it is a favourite haunt of the birds. I often stand near there to watch them flying in and out—pigeons especially. I could fancy it was a very favourite meeting-place for them. You can hear their murmuring voices even now.”

Mary held her breath to listen. They were at some little distance from the spot her godmother was speaking of, and though the cooing was to be heard, it sounded muffled and less distinct than she had ever noticed it before. The foliage, of which a good deal still remained on the trees, dulled the sound.

“It seems as if they were talking in whispers,” she said to her godmother, smiling.

“Or as if they were all half asleep,” Miss Verity added, “which I daresay they are. It is getting late, Mary; the light will soon be gone, and we have walked farther than you would think. We had better turn.”

They did so. Mary took good notice, by her godmother’s wish, of the paths they came by. Not that there was any real fear of her getting lost in the forest, but it was better for her to know her way about.

“That dark place can be seen so far off,” said Mary, “that I should always know pretty well whereabouts I was.”

“I think,” said Miss Verity, “I think I shall tell Pleasance to ring the big bell for you, if you are strolling about alone, and it is getting time for you to come in. You can hear it a long way off—farther off than you would ever care to go: sounds carry far in the forest.”

“That would be a very good plan,” said Mary, thinking to herself that it would be lovely to get the “run” of the forest, so as sometimes to meet her Cooies without fear of interruption.

They walked on, not speaking much. Mary was thinking of her feathered friends, and her godmother, from living so much alone, perhaps, was at no times a great talker. And the evening feeling in the air—theautumnevening feeling—seemed to make one silent. The feeling that children sometimes describe as being “as if we were in church.”

And then through the cool clear air came a soft rushing sound—nearer and nearer. There is no sound quite like it—the soft rush of many little wings. Without saying anything to each other, Mary and Miss Verity stood still and listened, looking upwards.

“It is the wood-pigeons,” said Miss Verity; “but what a quantity! I have often seen them flying together in the evening—going home, I suppose, but never so many together. And they are coming from the dark planting, as it is called. I have often wondered if they roosted there, but it does not look like it.”

Mary gazed still—even after her godmother had walked on a few paces; and just as she was turning to run after her, a sound still nearer at hand stopped her again. One of the birds had swooped downwards, and its murmured “coo-coo” made her stop.

“Mary,” said the little voice, “be at your window early to-morrow morning. We want to talk to you.”

“Yes,” whispered Mary in return; “yes, Cooie, dear, I will be there.”

And then, full of pleasure, she hastened to overtake her godmother.

“You are not cold, dear, at all, are you?” Miss Verity asked.

“Oh no, not the least, thank you,” said Mary. “I’m just—” and she gave a little skip.

“What?” asked her godmother, smiling.

“As happy asanything” replied Mary, with another hop.

Miss Verity smiled with pleasure.

“I think Levinside is the beautifulest place in the world,” said Mary. “And oh, godmother, I do hope you will let me go about here in the forest by myself. IknowI won’t get lost.”

“I don’t think you would,” said Miss Verity. “I have a feeling that the forest is half a fairy place. I don’t think any harm could come to you in it.”

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