“Only,” he replied; “but it is lucky to have got even that. May I have some tea, mother, or is it too late?”
“Of course not. Ring, dear, and you will have it at once.”
“And how’s Mary?” said Michael, as he drank his tea.
His mother looked a little surprised.
“Mary?” she repeated. “Quite well. Indeed I think she is scarcely ever ill.”
“Oh, I don’t mean really ill,” said the boy; “but don’t you remember what you were saying—you said nurse had been speaking of it—that Mary is getting fanciful and dreamy, and all that sort of thing, and more like that since I’ve been so much away. And the other day I did think she seemed rather down in the mouth.”
His mother looked thoughtful.
“I am sure she misses you a great deal,” she said. “The others are so much younger. And then the change from the country to living in a town. I daresay she misses country things.”
“I expect she does—lots,” said Michael; and though he did not speak of it—as he had a feeling that Mary had trusted him with what she counted a sort of secret—his mind went back to what she had told him of the wood-pigeons and their nest. “It must have been all her fancy,” he thought; “but it shows how her head runs on country things like that.”
“She enjoyed the seaside, I think,” his mother went on, “though not as much as the little ones did. She is too big for digging in the sand and paddling, and so on. And the place we were at was bare and uninteresting—not a tree to be seen—what people call an excellent place for children. Yes, perhaps poor Mary has not been quite in her element lately.” And Mary’s aunt looked rather distressed. Suddenly her face cleared.