“But, Mike,” she said gravely, “you know—I am afraid you did not believe me when I told you about the Cooies.”
It was Michael’s turn to redden a little now.
“The—the what-d’ye-call them?” he said, trying to avoid a reply.
“The Cooies. It’s my name for them,” said Mary, “because of the sweet way they coo. But Mike, do tell me—did you believe me?”
“I don’t quite know,” answered her cousin, honestly. “I didn’t think you were making up a regular story—an untruth, I mean,—I knew you wouldn’t do that, but I did think perhaps you’d fancied part of it. You might have seen other birds flying about, that you let yourself imagine were wood-pigeons, and certainly the remains in the tree scarcely look like a nest, do they?”
“No, they don’t,” said Mary. “The wind tore it to pieces that night it blew so.”
“Yes, I understand it all now,” said Michael, “except—it’s quite wonderful how you’ve managed to tame them so. They are like pet doves—I really am afraid I couldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” and as he spoke, he very gently stroked Mr Coo’s opal-coloured feathers.
“They have tamed themselves, the darlings,” said Mary. “I think wild creatures would soon learn to know me.”
“It’s wonderful,” Michael repeated. “I have heard of some people who have a kind of power over animals, and perhaps you are one of them.”
“Perhaps I am,” said Mary. “Then, Michael,” she went on, “you haven’t told any one about the Cooies, have you? not about my telling you of them, and your not quite—”