The Wood-Pigeons and Mary. Molesworth Mrs.

“the day after to-morrow, to stay two nights.”

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

      And “Ah!” repeated Mrs Coo.

      Mary was silent.

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

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

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

      “Even so,” they murmured.

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

      Mr and Mrs Coo felt very distressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Chapter Three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      His mother looked a little surprised.

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

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

      His mother looked thoughtful.

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

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

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

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

      Michael gave a sort of grunt.

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

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

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

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

      The door opened almost as she said the last word,