Mary trotted along beside her godmother in silent satisfaction, though beneath her quiet appearance she was bubbling over with excitement.
To get into the forest—into a real big forest!—and above all, the forest where her Cooies lived—she could imagine nothing more interesting. And though she had felt disappointed at not getting there earlier in the day, she could not help agreeing with Miss Verity when, after a minute or two’s silence on her side too, she said,—
“The forest, to my mind, is always fascinating, but after all, I don’t know that you could make acquaintance with it better than on an afternoon like this. The autumn feeling, this sort of almost solemn quiet, without wind, and the light already beginning to fade—all adds to the mystery of it. And the mystery is one of the greatest charms of a forest.” She stood still for a moment. They had entered the trees’ home by the little path from the garden—a private way of Miss Verity’s, though there was a gate which could be locked when she thought well, in case of tramps, though one of the nice things about Dove’s Nest was that tramps very seldom came that way—and by which you found yourself in quite a thick part of the wood almost at once. Mary stood still too, listening and gazing. I think her godmother had forgotten that she was talking to a child, but it did not matter—Mary understood.
And when she did speak, her words showed this. “Mystery means secrets, doesn’t it?” she said. “Nice secrets. Yes, it does feel like that. The trees look as if they talked to each other when there is nobody there.”
Her godmother smiled.
“And when there is a little wind,” she said as they walked on again, “up among their tops, it looks still more as if they were talking and nodding to each other over their secrets. It is really quite comical. Then another charming thing in a forest is when the sunshine comes through in quivering rays, lighting up the green till it looks like emeralds. That is more in the spring-time—when the new leaves are coming out. But there is no end to the beauties of a forest. It is never two days quite the same. I daresay you will always remember this grey day the best—one seldom forgets the first impression, as it is called, of a place, however many different feelings one may come to have about it afterwards, and—”
But a sudden little joyful exclamation from Mary interrupted her.
“Look, godmother, look!” she cried, and she pointed before them; “just what you were saying.”
The sun was setting, and some very clear rays had pierced through the grey, and right in front made a network of the branches against the brightness. It was very pretty, and rare too, so late in the day and in the year. They both stood still to admire.
“How dark the trees look where the light stops,” said Mary. “Are they thicker there?”