And so saying she went on into her own room. Mary ran back and took off her things as quickly as she could. But before she went downstairs, she could not resist standing a moment at “the forest window” as she had, in her own mind, begun to call it.
“Cooies,” she said softly, “dear Cooies, if it is you—my Cooies—that I heard just now—do you know that I have come?”
And from a little distance, a little farther off than they had seemed before, came the reply—at least Mary felt sure that it was one,—
“Coo-coo,” and again, “Coo-coo.”
She could not stay longer just then, but she felt very happy indeed, as she made her way down the cork-screw staircase and along the passages and downstairs again to the drawing-room. She could scarcely help singing as she went, and her face looked so bright as she came into the room that her godmother thought to herself that it was quite a mistake of Mary’s aunt to have written to her that the little girl would most likely be very grave and shy at first.
I don’t think Mary ever enjoyed anything more than that first tea with Miss Verity. She was very hungry, to begin with, and everything tasted delicious, and the room was so cosy and yet fresh, with little flutters of air and scent from the garden outside, as one window was a tiny bit open. And there were pretty autumn posies here and there in china bowls about the room, the faint fragrance from which mingled with that of dried rose-leaves and lavender, which the house had never been without since Miss Verity’s grandmother had come to live there as a bride, long, long ago.
All these things joined to make Mary feel very happy, though she did not think of them all separately, but behind everything in her mind was the looking forward to seeing her dear Cooies again. She gave one of her little sighs of content, which her godmother quite understood, though she did not seem to notice it.
When tea was over, Miss Verity proposed that Mary should go up to her room again, to see Pleasance unpack her trunk, and explain about her things.
“I have dinner at seven o’clock,” she said, “which is of course earlier than your uncle and aunt dine, so I have got leave for you to dine with me, or at least to sit at table with me, though you will not care to have much to eat.”
“No, I couldn’t be very hungry, so soon after tea,” said Mary, gravely, “but sometimes when auntie was alone, I have been at her dinner, and she gave me a little soup, and pudding, and fruit.”