was the most wintry weather there had beenduring the little girl's visit to Dove's Nest. "Miss Mary," she wenton, "why do you keep this one tiny white feather in your cap? It looksquite out of place, stuck into the brim all by itself, and if you carefor 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 Marythought so, on the point of taking out the feather. But before therewas time for anything more, Mary darted forward, tore the cap out of themaid's hand, turning upon her almost fiercely.
"Don't touch it," she cried, "if you--" but the words died upon herlips, for as she spoke the cap fell to the ground in the sort of littlestruggle there had been, as poor Pleasance, not really understandingwhat Mary meant, had kept her hold for a moment or two. The cap fell tothe ground--unluckily they were standing close to the fire-place--andwhen Mary stooped to pick it up she saw that the feather had droppedout, and lay where it had fallen, just within the fender. The fire wasnot yet lighted, but there must have been a little coal or cinder dustabout, for when Mary, scarcely daring to breathe, stooped again for hertreasure, she saw that the mischief was done--a black or grey spot nowsullied the feather's perfect whiteness.
And, without a word of explanation to Pleasance, who stood there inhalf-stupefied astonishment, the little girl burst into tears.
"Miss Mary!" she exclaimed at last; "my dear, I am so sorry. I had noidea that you cared about the feather so much. I can get you anotherlike it, I daresay, or very likely the spot will rub off," and she heldout her hand for it.
"Oh no, no," sobbed Mary, "you could never get another like it--never;and I am sure the spot won't rub off."
All the same, she drew out her handkerchief and tried with great carewhat she could do. But in vain; the poor feather's perfect spotlessnesswas gone.
"It was my own fault--all my own fault," murmured Mary to herself, "thatis why it won't rub off. Oh dear, oh dear! Just at the last."
And though after a while she dried her eyes and tried to look as usual,telling Pleasance she was sorry she had been so cross, she looked a veryunhappy little girl when at last she set off for a walk, leaving thefeather in its first home--the inside of Michael's letter, which waslying on the table.
She would not, she felt she could not, go to the forest, and it wasgetting late. The misfortune to the feather and her own crying hadwasted time, the finest part of the afternoon was over already. So shewent out at the front gate and trotted down the road, in a kind of"duty" way that was very dull and depressing. The sky and the look ofthings in general seemed to have caught her sadness, for there was adark blue-grey look in one direction which cast a strange kind of shadowover all, and every trace of sunshine had gone.
Miss Verity had driven out by herself that afternoon, to see the oldlady-friend who lived at some distance, and who, she had heard, was moreill and weak than usual, and it suddenly struck Mary that if she walkedon much farther she might meet her godmother coming home. She did notwish this, as she felt sure that her eyes were still red and swollen,and she did not want to be asked, even by kind Miss Verity, "what shehad been crying about."
So she turned and walked home again, without any adventure exceptpassing two country people, who were saying to each other that it wasblowing up for snow.
"Not to-night," said one, "nor yet to-morrow morning, but it's on theway all the same."
"That will be the end of it, I daresay," thought Mary. "If there is asnow-storm, godmother of course will not let me go out to-morrow, andeverything will be over."
For deep down in her heart there was still a sort of hope, that if shecould get to the secret of the forest the next day at the appointedtime, _somehow_, things might yet be put right. Perhaps the beautifuldove, when she saw how dreadfully sorry she was, would give her anothertrial, or tell her of some magic way of cleaning the feather? at worstMary felt that she would be able to explain how it had happened;anything would be better than her not seeing her dear bird friendsagain, which might easily happen if to-morrow were impossible for her,as the time for her returning to her aunt's was fast drawing near.
Miss Verity seemed a little sad and anxious herself when she came homethat evening, and if she did notice Mary's still rather swollen eyes,and face whiter than usual, she said nothing.
But when the little girl had bidden her good-night and was going off tobed, she called her back again.
"Mary, dear," she said, "can you manage to amuse yourself againto-morrow afternoon? My kind old friend is not at all well, not able toleave her room, and rather lonely and dull, and she begged me to go toher if I possibly could?"
Mary's face brightened.
"Of course I can," she replied, "if only--oh, godmother, do you think Ican go to the forest?"
"Why not?"
"I heard some people on the road say that it was going to snow, byto-morrow afternoon, certainly."
"Well, what then?" said Miss Verity, smiling. "It may snow withoutbeing a snow-storm. And that will not be just yet. I know the signs ofthe weather here pretty well by this time, my dear."
So Mary went to sleep with a lighter heart.
And her godmother was right. It was cold the next day, it is true, butnot very cold, nor very gloomy; nothing to prevent the little girl'ssetting off in good time to the spot where she usually met the Cooies.But how slowly and sadly she made her way there. She could scarcelyhelp crying again, as she looked at the poor feather she carried in herhand--not wrapped up, what was the use of wrapping it up now?--insteadof in its former place in spotless whiteness on the front of her cap.Indeed more than once she felt on the point of turning back altogether,and when she got near the entrance to the hidden path she stood still,feeling as if she could not bear to see the two wood-pigeons.
Just then something cold fell on her face; she looked up; there it wasagain--yes, it _was_ snowing, after all, though not much. A few flakes,that was all--and a ray of wintry sunshine came out as she glancedupwards, so there was not much fear of any great fall. Nor did Marymind now.
"The Cooies will take me safe home, I am sure," she said to herself."They'll take care of me, I know, even if they are very vexed with me."
They were not to be seen as yet, however, so Mary made her way along thelittle path to the white gate, which, as she half expected, stood open.So was the inner one, and in another moment she found herself inside thegreat arbour hall. And though there was complete silence, a glanceshowed her that it was quite full--all the birds were there in theirplaces, waiting for the Queen, and--for her. Her own wood-pigeonsperched one on each side of the green bench.
"You are late," they murmured, as she took her place.
"Oh Cooies," she whispered in reply, "it doesn't matter. I am sounhappy. I was nearly not coming at all, only then you would havethought I had broken my promise, and perhaps I should never have seenyou again."
"It was better to come," said Mr Coo, "but--hush!"
The Queen had alighted--where from, Mary could not see, but there shewas, on the green pillar, as before, and it scarcely needed the sound ofthe lovely voice calling her, for the little girl to know that she wassummoned.
"Have you proved worthy of the prize," the Queen asked, when Mary hadcurtseyed low and stood waiting, the feather in her hand.
"No," she said in a low voice, choking back her tears, and then she toldwhat had happened.
"Give me the feather," said the Queen.
Mary did so, but even in the moment of holding it up it seemed to her--what was it?--the feather looked a little different, and a curiousthrill of hope passed through her.
Then the Queen spoke again, and soft though her voice was, it was veryclear. Every bird in the great arbour heard what she said.
"Mary," she began, "you are a very fortunate child. The winter spirits,the snow-fairies, have taken you into favour. See--a flake has fallenon your feather, a fairy flake, for even the warmth of our bower has notmelted it, and nothing ever will. Your feather is again
spotless, andthe snowflake has added a silvery glistening to its whiteness. As thewinter spirits have thus favoured you, no one may dispute that you havewon the prize; before another day has passed you will receive it. Agolden chain will encircle your neck. Farewell for the present, happyMary."
And as she bent her beautiful head, the gleam of the wonderful thread ofsunshine round her own neck flashed on Mary's eyes.
She took the feather from the Queen, and almost breathless with delight,began to thank her. But a great sound drowned her first words. It wasa sound she had heard before--the rushing of countless little wings--butthis time it was still louder. Mary turned her head to see; yes, thatwas it, but the birds were still in their