Chapter Three.

“One on her Shoulder, One on her Outstretched Hand.”

Late the next evening a tall boy in midshipman’s uniform ran upstairs and into the drawing-room of Mary’s home. His mother was sitting there alone. She looked up brightly.

“I thought it was you, dear Mike,” she said. “No one else comes with such a rush. I am so glad you have got off again; but I suppose it is only for two nights?”

“Only,” he replied; “but it is lucky to have got even that. May I have some tea, mother, or is it too late?”

“Of course not. Ring, dear, and you will have it at once.”

“And how’s Mary?” said Michael, as he drank his tea.

His mother looked a little surprised.

“Mary?” she repeated. “Quite well. Indeed I think she is scarcely ever ill.”

“Oh, I don’t mean really ill,” said the boy; “but don’t you remember what you were saying—you said nurse had been speaking of it—that Mary is getting fanciful and dreamy, and all that sort of thing, and more like that since I’ve been so much away. And the other day I did think she seemed rather down in the mouth.”

His mother looked thoughtful.

“I am sure she misses you a great deal,” she said. “The others are so much younger. And then the change from the country to living in a town. I daresay she misses country things.”

“I expect she does—lots,” said Michael; and though he did not speak of it—as he had a feeling that Mary had trusted him with what she counted a sort of secret—his mind went back to what she had told him of the wood-pigeons and their nest. “It must have been all her fancy,” he thought; “but it shows how her head runs on country things like that.”

“She enjoyed the seaside, I think,” his mother went on, “though not as much as the little ones did. She is too big for digging in the sand and paddling, and so on. And the place we were at was bare and uninteresting—not a tree to be seen—what people call an excellent place for children. Yes, perhaps poor Mary has not been quite in her element lately.” And Mary’s aunt looked rather distressed. Suddenly her face cleared.

“By the bye, Mike,” she exclaimed, “how stupid of me to have forgotten. I had a letter lately from Mary’s godmother—old Miss Verity; she lives at Levinside, near the forest, you know. She wrote to ask how Mary was getting on; and she said she would be delighted to have the child for a visit if ever we thought she would be the better for some country air. It is very charming there, even in late autumn or winter. If Mary seems very dull after you go, I think I will write to Miss Verity and propose a visit.”

Michael gave a sort of grunt.

“I shouldn’t think it would be very lively for her,” he said, “going to stay with an old maid like that, all by herself. Better be here with you, mother, and Fritz and Twitter.”

“Ah, but you don’t know Miss Verity,” said his mother. “She’s not like an old maid, or rather she is the very nicest old maid that ever lived. She is full of spirits and very clever and very kind, and I am sure she would be just the person to understand a rather fanciful child like Mary. Mary has scarcely seen her, but I am sure they would get on, and she knew Mary’s own mother so well. And her house is so pretty and so prettily situated.”

“It might be a good plan,” said Mike, “but if I were you, mother, I’d see what Mary herself thinks of it before you settle anything.”

“Yes, I will,” she replied. “It would certainly do Mary no good to go there against her own wishes. For she has decided ideas of her own, though she is a gentle obedient child as a rule. But I think I hear her coming, Mike, so take care. I don’t want her to think we are talking her over. Nurse is not always careful enough in that way; she forgets that Mary is growing older.”

The door opened almost as she said the last word, and Michael could not help smiling to himself as he thought how very easily his little cousin might have overheard her own name, though his mother meant to be so thoughtful. He looked up brightly, the smile still on his face, and he was pleased to see an answering-back one on Mary’s as she caught sight of him.

“Oh, dear Mike,” she exclaimed, “it is you! Oh, you don’t know how glad I am you’ve come. I thought I heard you running upstairs, and I wanted to come to see, but nurse said I must be dressed first Auntie, I wish you’d tell nurse sometimes to let me run down to speak to you without such a fuss. I’m not as little as Twitter, you know.”

Her aunt glanced at her and smiled, and Michael smiled too.

“Yes, mother,” he said, “I think nurse does treat Molly rather too babyishly now.”

Mary glanced at him gratefully, and her face brightened still more. Michael seemed quite like himself to her again.

“I rather agree with you,” said his mother. “I will give her a hint. Have you been wanting to see me for anything special to-day, Mary dear?”

“Oh no, it was only that I was so hoping Michael would come,” she replied; and a moment or two later, when her aunt happened to have gone to the other end of the room to write a letter, the little girl turned to her cousin.

“Mike,” she said, speaking almost in a whisper, “have you settled what you are going to do to-morrow, exactly?”

“Well, no, not quite. It depends on mother. I have not much to do, myself. I did all my shopping last week, you see. I thought it would be nice to have the last two days pretty clear. Mother,” he went on, raising his voice a little, “what would you like me to do to-morrow—I have kept it quite free for you—and Mary,” he added quickly.

“Darling,” said his mother. “Well, I was thinking we might go out together in the afternoon, you and I. I want you to say good-bye to your godmother—and if you and Mary can think of anything you would like to do in the morning, that would suit very well,” and then she went on writing.

“What would you like to do, then, Moll?” said Michael. “I’m sure you’ve got something in your head.”

Mary clasped her hands in