The bird cupped in Dickon's hand chirps feebly again, and he strokes its feathers gently with one finger.

"There, now," he says gently, not knowing what else to do. "There, now, it's just a storm. A bad one, sure an' certain, but even bad storms can' last forever."
It's the storm, not you
"'Twill be all right soon enough, tha'll see."
That's bound to blow away
He's not certain if it's the bird or Mary he's speaking to, but perhaps that doesn't matter.