But she was speaking to the air! Her Cooies had disappeared.
“A whole week,” however, sometimes passes very quickly, though sometimes, it is true, a week seems to have leaden wings. This time it was not so. Miss Verity was more than kind in her ways of interesting and amusing her little god-daughter; so that even though the weather grew dull, and rainy, and disagreeable, and it was scarcely possible to go out, either driving or walking, Mary was happy and bright. The only thing that she felt uneasy about was as to the appointed day for her visit to the secret of the forest.
“If it should be a regular bad day,” she said to herself, “godmother will certainly not let me go out, and it would seem silly of me to expect it.”
But she wisely consoled herself by remembering that, so far, nothing that had to do with the wood-pigeons had gone wrong. And as it was a “fairy” matter, she might safely leave it in fairy hands!
“Or in fairy beaks and claws,” she added, laughingly, to herself, “as my fairies are all birds.”
And her trust was well-founded. For the day before the day there came a complete change in the weather. There was a change of moon, Pleasance told her, but, however that may have been, there was a great improvement in out-of-doors things. It grew colder, certainly, but bright, and clear, and bracing; the sort of weather that healthy children love, and indoors plenty of good fires kept away all fear of colds, and chilblains, and miseries of that kind.
Mary was delighted; both because she was so glad to get out again, and also to have her fears about the important day dispelled. For it was not now likely, indeed almost impossible, that the weather should change again for some little time to come.
“What a good thing it is that I have got all my Christmas presents finished before this nice frost began, isn’t it?” she said to Pleasance, as she was dressing to go out, that first fine day. For one of her godmother’s ways of interesting and amusing her in the house had been to give her some charming scraps and patches of silks and satin, besides other odds and ends of pretty cord and fringe and such things, with which Miss Verity had helped her to make sweet and dainty little pincushions and pen-wipers and so on to take home with her.
“Yes, indeed it is, Miss,” said the maid. She was taking Mary’s jacket, and cap, and fur boa, and thick gloves out, for she was very afraid of her catching cold, as this was the most wintry weather there had been during the little girl’s visit to Dove’s Nest. “Miss Mary,” she went on, “why do you keep this one tiny white feather in your cap? It looks quite out of place, stuck into the brim all by itself, and if you care for it, it would be much safer in your work-box or your writing-case.”
She had the cap in her hand as she spoke, and seemed, or at least Mary thought so, on the point of taking out the feather. But before there was time for anything more, Mary darted forward, tore the cap out of the maid’s hand, turning upon her almost fiercely.