“Have you proved worthy of the prize,” the Queen asked, when Mary had curtseyed low and stood waiting, the feather in her hand.
“No,” she said in a low voice, choking back her tears, and then she told what had happened.
“Give me the feather,” said the Queen.
Mary did so, but even in the moment of holding it up it seemed to her—what was it?—the feather looked a little different, and a curious thrill of hope passed through her.
Then the Queen spoke again, and soft though her voice was, it was very clear. Every bird in the great arbour heard what she said.
“Mary,” she began, “you are a very fortunate child. The winter spirits, the snow-fairies, have taken you into favour. See—a flake has fallen on your feather, a fairy flake, for even the warmth of our bower has not melted it, and nothing ever will. Your feather is again spotless, and the snowflake has added a silvery glistening to its whiteness. As the winter spirits have thus favoured you, no one may dispute that you have won the prize; before another day has passed you will receive it. A golden chain will encircle your neck. Farewell for the present, happy Mary.”
And as she bent her beautiful head, the gleam of the wonderful thread of sunshine round her own neck flashed on Mary’s eyes.
She took the feather from the Queen, and almost breathless with delight, began to thank her. But a great sound drowned her first words. It was a sound she had heard before—the rushing of countless little wings—but this time it was still louder. Mary turned her head to see; yes, that was it, but the birds were still in their places, they were not flying away, though all their wings were in motion. And when she glanced round again, the Queen had disappeared.
“What—” she was beginning to ask, but before she could say more Mr Coo interrupted her.
“They are clapping their wings to congratulate you and wish you joy,” he said. “Make a curtsey to them; they will understand.”