“A great many in the spring and summer time,” said Pleasance; “not so many now, of course. But enough to keep it cheery, so to say. And my lady has been very pleased lately at finding that the wood-pigeons have come over more to our part than they used. There’s a new road making across at the opposite side, and Miss Verity thinks perhaps that’s the reason; for though wood-pigeons are trusting sort of creatures, they don’t like being disturbed. And I daresay my lady’s right, for we’ve never heard them cooing like this year. It’s just beautiful.” Mary’s heart beat so fast with pleasure that she could scarcely speak. Could it be her own Cooies’ voices that Pleasance had heard? It was almost too lovely to hope for.
“I love wood-pigeons,” she said.
“Then you and my lady will be the best of friends,” said Pleasance, “for I almost think they are her favourites of all the creatures about.”
Thus beguiling the way with pleasant talk, like the travellers in the Pilgrim’s Progress, the little journey soon came to an end, and long before the autumn afternoon had given any signs of drawing in, the train slackened and pulled up at the small roadside station which was the nearest to Dove’s Nest, though a two-miles’ drive off.
And on the platform stood a lady whom Mary would have guessed to be her godmother, even if Pleasance had not exclaimed, “Here we are, Miss!” as she gathered Mary’s wraps and small luggage together.
Miss Verity had quite white—snow-white—hair. Just at the very first moment, somehow, this gave Mary a little start. She had not expected it, and she was not used to it, as her aunt and those she lived with had always been younger people. And there is something just a very little “uncanny”—till you get used to it—about very white hair and dark bright eyes; it is almost too like a “fairy godmother” to seem quite natural. But these dark eyes, though bright, were very, very sweet and soft too.
“If my godmother is at all a fairy,” thought Mary to herself, “she is a very good, kind one.”
So, though her cheeks had got rather pink with the surprise and a sort of sudden shyness, she held up her face to be kissed without hesitation, and slipped her hand into her godmother’s, feeling a pleasant sort of “sureness” that all that her aunt had told her about Miss Verity was going to come true.
There was a little pony-carriage waiting just outside the station gates, and standing in it was a rather fat piebald pony. The carriage only held two, and for a moment or so Mary wondered how she and her godmother and Pleasance were all to get to Dove’s Nest, as the maid had told her it was two or three miles from the station. But just then, glancing round, she saw that there was also a two-wheeled spring-cart, drawn by another piebald; and Miss Verity noticing Mary’s glances, smiled, as if she were answering an unspoken question.
“Yes,” she said, “they are both my ponies. Their names are Magpie and Jackdaw. Sometimes I drive them together, and then we do go pretty fast, though Magpie does not look as if that often happened, does she?”