ou
very badly; and I didn't _mean_ to hurt you, cuckoo. I was sorry the
moment I had done it, _dreadfully_ sorry. Dear cuckoo, won't you
forgive me?"

There was a little sound at last--a faint _coming_ sound, and by the
moonlight Griselda saw the doors open, and out flew the cuckoo. He stood
still for a moment, looked round him as it were, then gently flapped his
wings, and uttered his usual note--"Cuckoo."

Griselda stood in breathless expectation, but in her delight she could
not help very softly clapping her hands.

The cuckoo cleared his throat. You never heard such a funny little noise
as he made; and then, in a very clear, distinct, but yet "cuckoo-y"
voice, he spoke.

"Griselda," he said, "are you truly sorry?"

"I told you I was," she replied. "But I didn't _feel_ so very naughty,
cuckoo. I didn't, really. I was only vexed for one minute, and when I
threw the book I seemed to be a very little in fun, too. And it made me
so unhappy when you went away, and my poor aunts have been dreadfully
unhappy too. If you hadn't come back I should have told them to-morrow
what I had done. I would have told them before, but I was afraid it
would have made them more unhappy. I thought I had hurt you dreadfully."

"So you did," said the cuckoo.

"But you _look_ quite well," said Griselda.

"It was _my feelings_," replied the cuckoo; "and I couldn't help going
away. I have to obey orders like other people."

Griselda stared. "How do you mean?" she asked.

"Never mind. You can't understand at present," said the cuckoo. "You can
understand about obeying _your_ orders, and you see, when you don't,
things go wrong."

"Yes," said Griselda humbly, "they certainly do. But, cuckoo," she
continued, "I never used to get into tempers at home--_hardly_ never,
at least; and I liked my lessons then, and I never was scolded about
them."

"What's wrong here, then?" said the cuckoo. "It isn't often that things
go wrong in this house."

"That's what Dorcas says," said Griselda. "It must be with my being a
child--my aunts and the house and everything have got out of children's
ways."

"About time they did," remarked the cuckoo drily.

"And so," continued Griselda, "it is really very dull. I have lots of
lessons, but it isn't so much that I mind. It is that I've no one to
play with."

"There's something in that," said the cuckoo. He flapped his wings and
was silent for a minute or two. "I'll consider about it," he observed at