“Not to-night,” said one, “nor yet to-morrow morning, but it’s on the way all the same.”
“That will be the end of it, I daresay,” thought Mary. “If there is a snow-storm, godmother of course will not let me go out to-morrow, and everything will be over.”
For deep down in her heart there was still a sort of hope, that if she could get to the secret of the forest the next day at the appointed time, somehow, things might yet be put right. Perhaps the beautiful dove, when she saw how dreadfully sorry she was, would give her another trial, or tell her of some magic way of cleaning the feather? at worst Mary felt that she would be able to explain how it had happened; anything would be better than her not seeing her dear bird friends again, which might easily happen if to-morrow were impossible for her, as the time for her returning to her aunt’s was fast drawing near.
Miss Verity seemed a little sad and anxious herself when she came home that evening, and if she did notice Mary’s still rather swollen eyes, and face whiter than usual, she said nothing.
But when the little girl had bidden her good-night and was going off to bed, she called her back again.
“Mary, dear,” she said, “can you manage to amuse yourself again to-morrow afternoon? My kind old friend is not at all well, not able to leave her room, and rather lonely and dull, and she begged me to go to her if I possibly could?”
Mary’s face brightened.
“Of course I can,” she replied, “if only—oh, godmother, do you think I can go to the forest?”
“Why not?”
“I heard some people on the road say that it was going to snow, by to-morrow afternoon, certainly.”