“Mary is crying,” said Mr Coo.
“No!” replied Mrs Coo.
But Mr Coo said again—
“Mary is crying,” and though Mrs Coo repeated—
“No!” she knew by the way he held his head on one side and looked at her, that he was very much in earnest indeed.
I must tell you that when Mrs Coo said ‘no,’ it went off into a soft sound that was almost like ‘coo’; indeed most of her talking, and of Mr Coo’s too, sounded like that, which is the reason, I daresay, that many people would not have understood their conversation. But it would be rather tiresome to write “no,” or other words, with double o’s at the end, so I will leave it to be fancied, which will do just as well. There is a great deal of conversation in the world which careless people don’t understand; a great deal which no one can understand properly, however much they try; but also a great deal that one can get to understand, if one tries, even without the gift which the dear fairy bestowed on the very lucky prince in the long ago story. I forget his name, but I daresay some of you remember it. The gift was the power to understand all that the beasts and birds say.
This very morning the wind has been talking to me a good deal—it was the south wind, and her stories are always very sweet, though sometimes sad, yet I understand a good deal of them.
After this second “No,” Mr and Mrs Coo sat looking at each other for a moment or two, without speaking.
Then said Mr Coo—
“It must be something—serious. For Mary scarcely ever cries.”
“True,” said Mrs Coo, “true.”
But she did not say anything more, only she too held her head on one side and kept her reddy-brown eyes fixed on Mr Coo. They seemed to ask, “What is to be done?” only as she nearly always depended on Mr Coo for settling what was to be done or if anything was to be done, she did not need to say the words.
“Mary scarcely ever cries,” he repeated. “There were large drops, quite large ones on her cheeks.”
“As large as raindrops?” asked Mrs Coo.
“Larger—that is to say as large as large raindrops—the kind that come when it thunders,” said Mr Coo.
“Oh dear,” sighed Mrs Coo, thinking to herself that Mary’s trouble must be a very bad one indeed if her tears were so large. She wanted very much for once, to ask what could be done, but she saw that Mr Coo was considering very deeply, so she did not interrupt his thoughts.
At last he turned to her.
“I heard something,” he said. “Very little, but enough to help me to put two and two together.”
“To make four,” said Mrs Coo quickly. She felt rather proud of her arithmetic, though she did not understand what Mr Coo could mean, as she had never heard the saying before. “Four what, my dear?”
“Four nothing,” was the reply—rather a cross one. “It is an expression. You are not as used to human talk as I am, you see,” he went on more amiably, for it is not the way with the Coo family ever to be cross for more than a moment, and if ever they are, they are sorry immediately. “Never mind about the two and two. What I heard was only a few words, but it has decided me that I must hear more, for,” and here Mr Coo’s tone grew very solemn, “it had to do with us!”
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