I know it’s going to be awfully dull till you come back again. They say it’s so gloomy and dark in the winter sometimes; not like the country. I shall always like the country best, Mike.”
“So should I,” said her cousin, “that’s to say if it was a choice between it and a town, though I like the sea best of all, of course. But don’t get melancholy again, Moll. Something may turn up to help you through the gloomy months.”
“I shall miss you so,” said Mary, “and there’s something else I shall miss too.”
She was thinking of the Cooies, and she was glad to feel that once Michael had seen them and knew about them, she would be able to tell him of their going away, and that they only came back out of affection for her now and then.
More than this she felt she must not tell him, as it was a sort of secret between her and them. There are fairy secrets sometimes which it would be almost impossible to tell to anybody.
The rest of that evening and the next morning passed very cheerfully, even though Michael’s time was to be so short at home. Nurse proved quite as kind and interested about the Christmas presents as Mary had expected. Indeed there was nothing she would not have been interested about if it concerned her eldest nursling, as big Michael was, and she was really fond of Mary too, and pleased to see her happy, though she had only had the care of her for a much shorter time than the others.
The two set off for their shopping quite early. They knew pretty exactly what they wanted to buy; which is always a great help when you go on such an expedition; for after a good deal of thought, nurse had decided that a new thimble was what “auntie” would like best. It was to be a really pretty one of a new pattern, and nurse was able to direct them to a jeweller’s shop where she had seen some beauties in the window, and it was to have his mother’s initials engraved on it, Michael said, and to be in a pretty case, lined with velvet. This important piece of business was quickly completed, as they found the jeweller’s without difficulty. Twitter’s present took rather longer; it was to be a set of toy tea-things, and as Michael liked china ones with tiny roses on, and Mary preferred some with forget-me-nots, they felt rather at a loss, till luckily the shopwoman, who was very good-natured, found a third pattern, of rosebuds and forget-me-nots together, which was a charming way out of the puzzle.
Then Michael proposed that they should go to a confectioner’s not far from their own Square, to get a little luncheon. They kept capital buns there, he said, and after eating two of them, and having a glass of delicious milk, Mary quite agreed with him, and they were sitting at the little round marble-topped table very happily, when she happened to glance at a clock hanging up on the wall, and started to see that it was already a quarter to twelve o’clock.
“Oh Mike,” she exclaimed, “we must hurry. It is nearly twelve.”
Michael glanced at his watch.
“Yes,” he said, “but if we’re not back quite – oh I forgot – you wanted to show me something in your room at twelve o’clock. But won’t it keep? It’s not likely to fly away.”
Mary’s face flushed.
“To fly away,” she repeated. “I never spoke of flying.”
“No,” said Michael, “it’s just a way of speaking,” but he looked at her rather oddly. “What are you stuffing into your pocket, child?” he went on.
“Only a bit of bun I don’t want to eat,” she replied, getting still redder, for it had suddenly struck her that she had got no crumbs ready for the Cooies, and that she would not have time to ask for any.
“And if they keep their promise to me,” she said to herself, “I must certainly keep mine to them.” – “Mike, dear,” she went on beseechingly, “do let us hurry. What I want to show you won’t ‘keep’ – perhaps,” in a lower voice, “it may fly away.”
Michael had already paid for their luncheon, and fortunately they were near home, and five minutes’ quick walking covers more ground than you might think. They were soon at their own door, and the moment it opened, up flew Mary to her room.
“Mike,” she had said as they stood on the front steps, “take out your watch and look at it, and when the hand gets to five minutes past twelve, run up to my room after me. Don’t rap at the door, but come straight in.”
Michael laughed, and repeated to himself, though he did not say it aloud —
“You are a queer child, Moll.”
He waited the few minutes, as she had asked, then made his way upstairs after her. It was a pretty and unexpected sight that met his eyes, as he quietly opened the door, without knocking. He felt very curious about this secret of his little cousin’s – half suspecting she had some trick preparing for him, and not wishing to be taken unawares, as what boy would!
But the moment he caught sight of her, and heard the gentle sounds from where she stood by the window, he “understood” – for he was very quick at understanding – and felt ashamed of the doubts he had had of Mary’s truthfulness.
There they were – the wood-pigeons he had almost thought lived only in her imagination – one on her shoulder, one just perching on her outstretched hand, on the friendliest terms, it was easy to see – cooing in the sweetest way, while Mary murmured some caressing words to them. Nor were they startled away when Michael drew near, stepping softly, it is true, but still not so softly but that the little wood-creatures, well used to notice every tiniest sound in their forest homes, heard him, and even, it seemed to Michael, glanced towards him, quite fearlessly – quite secure in Mary’s protection.
“Well, Mike?” she said with a smile. “They are very tame, you can come quite close,” and then Michael heard again her own little murmur, though he did not know that it meant: “of course he won’t harm you, dear Cooies.”
Michael drew near.
“They are sweet,” he said, “are they your own, Molly? or have you tamed them?”
Mary shook her head.
“They didn’t need taming,” she replied. “They lived in the tree there,” and she nodded towards it. “They have known me ever since I came to live in the Square, and I have watched them, as I told you the other day. The remains of their old nest are still there, but I am sure they are not going to build there any more. They only fly over here to see me, and I give them crumbs and water whenever they come.”
“Oh,” said Michael, “that was what the bit of bun was stuffed into your pocket for.”
Mary smiled.
“But, Mike,” she said gravely, “you know – I am afraid you did not believe me when I told you about the Cooies.”
It was Michael’s turn to redden a little now.
“The – the what-d’ye-call them?” he said, trying to avoid a reply.
“The Cooies. It’s my name for them,” said Mary, “because of the sweet way they coo. But Mike, do tell me – did you believe me?”
“I don’t quite know,” answered her cousin, honestly. “I didn’t think you were making up a regular story – an untruth, I mean, – I knew you wouldn’t do that, but I did think perhaps you’d fancied part of it. You might have seen other birds flying about, that you let yourself imagine were wood-pigeons, and certainly the remains in the tree scarcely
