Again Curdie advanced a few steps, and held out his hand with the
pigeon, that she might see what it was, into the moonlight. The
moment the rays fell upon it the pigeon gave a faint flutter. The
old lady put out her old hands and took it, and held it to her
bosom, and rocked it, murmuring over it as if it were a sick baby.

When Curdie saw how distressed she was he grew sorrier still, and
said:
'I didn't mean to do any harm, ma'am. I didn't think of its being
yours.'

'Ah, Curdie! If it weren't mine, what would become of it now?' she
returned. 'You say you didn't mean any harm: did you mean any
good, Curdie?'

'No,' answered Curdie.

'Remember, then, that whoever does not mean good is always in
danger of harm. But I try to give everybody fair play; and those
that are in the wrong are in far more need of it always than those
who are in the right: they can afford to do without it. Therefore
I say for you that when you shot that arrow you did not know what
a pigeon is. Now that you do know, you are sorry. It is very
dangerous to do things you don't know about.'

'But, please, ma'am - I don't mean to be rude or to contradict
you,' said Curdie, 'but if a body was never to do anything but what
he knew to be good, he would have to live half his time doing
nothing.'