"I was doing the wrong of never wanting or trying to be better. And now I see that I have been letting things go as they would for a long time. Whatever came into my head I did, and whatever didn't come into my head I didn't do. I never sent anything away, and never looked out for anything to come. I haven't been attending to my mother--or my father either. And now I think of it, I know I have often seen them looking troubled, and I have never asked them what was the matter. And now I see too that I did not ask because I suspected it had something to do with me and my behaviour, and didn't want to hear the truth. And I know I have been grumbling at my work, and doing a hundred other things that are wrong." "You have got it, Curdie," said the old lady, in a voice that sounded almost as if she had been crying. "When people don't care to be better they must be doing everything wrong. I am so glad you shot my bird!" "Ma'am!" exclaimed Curdie. "How _can_ you be?" "Because it has brought you to see what sort you were when you did it, and what sort you will grow to be again, only worse, if you don't mind. Now that you are sorry, my poor bird will be better. Look up, my dovey." The pigeon gave a flutter, and spread out one of its red-spotted wings across the old woman's bosom. "I will mend the little angel," she said, "and in a week or two it will be flying again. So you may ease your heart about the pigeon." "Oh, thank you! thank you!" cried Curdie. "I don't know how to thank you." "Then I will tell you. There is only one way I care for. Do better, and grow better, and be better. And never kill anything without a good reason for it." "Ma'am, I will go and fetch my bow and arrows, and you shall burn them yourself." "I have no fire that would burn your bow and arrows, Curdie." "Then I promise you to burn them all under my mother's porridge-pot to-morrow morning." "No, no, Curdie. Keep them, and practise with them every day, and grow a good shot. There are plenty of bad things that want killing, and a day will come when they will prove useful. But I must see first whether you will do as I tell you." "That I will!" said Curdie. "What is it, ma'am?" "Only something not to do," answered the old lady; "if you should hear any one speak about me, never to laugh or make fun of me." "Oh, ma'am!" exclaimed Curdie, shocked that she should think such a request needful. "Stop, stop," she went on. "People hereabout sometimes tell very odd and in fact ridiculous stories of an old woman who watches what is going on, and occasionally interferes. They mean me, though what they say is often great nonsense. Now what I want of you is not to laugh, or side with them in any way; because they will take that to mean that you don't believe there is any such person a bit more than they do. Now that would not be the case--would it, Curdie?" "No indeed, ma'am. I've seen you." The old woman smiled very oddly.