So Mary turned towards them and curtseyed in her prettiest manner, though she felt rather shy, and then, taking this as her farewell, the great flight of birds rose—in every direction the air seemed full of them, and again, as had been the case before, the rush and flutter made her feel confused and giddy. But her own Cooies were perched on her shoulders.
“Shut your eyes and count eleven slowly,” one, or both of them whispered; “then it will be all right, you will see.”
Mary did so: before she got to “eleven” she had become rather sleepy, and began to dream that she was the little sister in the fairy story of the Eleven White Swans, and that it was their wings she heard; then something touched her cheek, and she started and opened her eyes, and, she was standing at the gate leading into her godmother’s garden, the two wood-pigeons on the path in front of her, looking up at her!
“Oh Cooies,” she exclaimed, half-laughing, “you have brought me back quickly this time. How did you do it?”
“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.