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.