And that evening, just before she went to bed, it seemed as if her wish had found its way into her godmother’s mind.
“Would you like to go with me to Metherley—the place I have to drive to,” she said, “or would you rather stay at home and amuse yourself? Do you think you could do so? Tell me truly.”
“I’m sure I could,” said Mary. Then, fearing that her wish to be left behind might not sound very polite, she added, “I don’t mean that I would not like the drive with you, godmother, but I know I should be quite happy if I might go into the forest.”
“There is no reason why you should not do so, dear, if it is a fairly good, dry day—and in the forest it dries so quickly; the moisture soaks through the ‘fir needles’ carpet almost at once. And I will tell Pleasance to ring the big bell now and then, so that if you should possibly feel at a loss as to your whereabouts, you would soon know.”
“Oh thank you,” said Mary, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, “that would be beautiful I might fix with Pleasance to ring it twice, perhaps—once at three o’clock, and once at four. Wouldn’t that be a good plan?”
“A very good plan,” said Miss Verity. “And you will promise to come home after you hear the second bell, for it will be getting late and chilly. I shall be back by half-past four or so and quite ready for tea.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “I’ll run home when I hear the four o’clock bell. It will be like Cinderella.” Then came bed-time, and Mary was glad to go to sleep “for the morning to come sooner.”
And when it did come, she jumped out of bed the instant Pleasance awoke her, and hurried to get dressed as quickly as possible, so that she might have a few minutes at the window with her faithful little friends.
They were true to their promise. Mary had scarcely pushed up the sash when she heard their voices, and in another moment they had both hopped on to the sill.
“Coo-coo,” they began, “good-morning, Mary dear. We have been watching for you.”