ead a
toss, which nearly upset the cuckoo.

"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed the cuckoo. "You have a great deal to
complain of, Griselda. Your time and strength must be very valuable for
you to regret so much having wasted a little of them on me."

Griselda felt her face grow red. What did he mean? Did he know how
yesterday had been spent? She said nothing, but she drooped her head,
and one or two tears came slowly creeping up to her eyes.

"Child!" said the cuckoo, suddenly changing his tone, "you are very
foolish. Is a kind thought or action _ever_ wasted? Can your eyes see
what such good seeds grow into? They have wings, Griselda--kindnesses
have wings and roots, remember that--wings that never droop, and roots
that never die. What do you think I came and sat outside your window
for?"

"Cuckoo," said Griselda humbly, "I am very sorry."

"Very well," said the cuckoo, "we'll leave it for the present. I have
something else to see about. Are you cold, Griselda?"

"_Very_," she replied. "I would very much like to go back to bed,
cuckoo, if you please; and there's plenty of room for you too, if you'd
like to come in and get warm."

"There are other ways of getting warm besides going to bed," said the
cuckoo. "A nice brisk walk, for instance. I was going to ask you to come
out into the garden with me."

Griselda almost screamed.

"Out into the garden! _Oh_, cuckoo!" she exclaimed, "how can you think
of such a thing? Such a freezing cold night. Oh no, indeed, cuckoo, I
couldn't possibly."

"Very well, Griselda," said the cuckoo; "if you haven't yet learnt to
trust me, there's no more to be said. Good-night."

He flapped his wings, cried out "Cuckoo" once only, flew across the
room, and almost before Griselda understood what he was doing, had
disappeared.

She hurried after him, stumbling against the furniture in her haste, and
by the uncertain light. The door was not open, but the cuckoo had got
through it--"by the keyhole, I dare say," thought Griselda; "he can
'scrooge' himself up any way"--for a faint "Cuckoo" was to be heard on
its other side. In a moment Griselda had opened it, and was speeding
down the long passage in the dark, guided only by the voice from time to
time heard before her, "Cuckoo, cuckoo."

She forgot all about the cold, or rather, she did not feel it, though
the floor was of uncarpeted old oak, whose hard, polished surface would
have usually felt like ice to a child's soft, bare feet. It