The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

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

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

“Is anything the matter?” she asked.

Their heads were both very much on one side.

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

“Saying good-bye,” Mary repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After breakfast she called Mary into the drawing-room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I am glad!” exclaimed Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End