s
to-morrow," she said quietly. "I think you are quite well again now, so
Dorcas must wake you at your usual hour."

Griselda had been settling herself comfortably on a corner of the sofa.
She had got a nice book to read, which her father, hearing of her
illness, had sent her by post, and she was looking forward to the
tempting plateful of jelly which Dorcas had brought her for luncheon
every day since she had been ill. Altogether, she was feeling very
"lazy-easy" and contented. Her aunt's announcement felt like a sudden
downpour of cold water, or rush of east wind. She sat straight up in her
sofa, and exclaimed in a tone of great annoyance--

"_Oh_, Aunt Grizzel!"

"Well, my dear?" said Miss Grizzel, placidly.

"I _wish_ you wouldn't make me begin lessons again just yet. I _know_
they'll make my head ache again, and Mr. Kneebreeches will be _so_
cross. I know he will, and he is so horrid when he is cross."

"Hush!" said Miss Grizzel, holding up her hand in a way that reminded
Griselda of the cuckoo's favourite "obeying orders." Just then, too, in
the distance the ante-room clock struck twelve. "Cuckoo! cuckoo!
cuckoo!" on it went. Griselda could have stamped with irritation, but
_somehow_, in spite of herself, she felt compelled to say nothing. She
muttered some not very pretty words, coiled herself round on the sofa,
opened her book, and began to read.

But it was not as interesting as she had expected. She had not read many
pages before she began to yawn, and she was delighted to be interrupted
by Dorcas and the jelly.

But the jelly was not as nice as she had expected, either. She tasted
it, and thought it was too sweet; and when she tasted it again, it
seemed too strong of cinnamon; and the third taste seemed too strong of
everything. She laid down her spoon, and looked about her
discontentedly.

"What is the matter, my dear?" said Miss Grizzel. "Is the jelly not to
your liking?"

"I don't know," said Griselda shortly. She ate a few spoonfuls, and then
took up her book again. Miss Grizzel said nothing more, but to herself
she thought that Mr. Kneebreeches had not been recalled any too soon.

All day long it was much the same. Nothing seemed to come right to
Griselda. It was a dull, cold day, what is called "a black frost;" not a
bright, clear, _pretty_, cold day, but the sort of frost that really
makes the world seem dead--makes it almost impossible to believe that
there will ever be warmth and sound a