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
tomorrow morning.'

'No, no, Curdie. Keep them, and practice 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?'