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 and "growing-ness" again.

Late in the afternoon Griselda crept up to the ante-room, and sat down
by the window. Outside it was nearly dark, and inside it was not much
more cheerful--for the fire was nearly out, and no lamps were lighted;
only the cuckoo clock went on tick-ticking briskly as usual.

"I hate winter," said Griselda, pressing her cold little face against
the colder window-pane, "I hate winter, and I hate lessons. I would give
up being a _person_ in a minute if I might be a--a--what would I best
like to be? Oh yes, I know--a butterfly. Butterflies never see winter,
and they _certainly_ never have any lessons or any kind of work to do. I
hate _must_-ing to do anything."

"Cuckoo," rang out suddenly above her head. It was only four o'clock
striking, and as soon as he had told it the cuckoo was back behind his
doors again in an instant, just as usual. There was nothing for
Griselda to feel offended at, but somehow she got quite angry.

"I don't care what you think, cuckoo!" she exclaimed defiantly. "I know
you came out on purpose just now, but I don't care. I _do_ hate winter,
and I _do_ hate lessons, and I _do_ think it would be nicer to be a
butterfly than a little girl."

In her secret heart I fancy she was half in hopes that the cuckoo would
come out again, and talk things over with her. Even if he were to scold
her, she felt that it would be better than sitting there alone with
nobody to speak to, which was very dull work indeed. At the bottom of
her conscience there lurked the knowledge that what she _should_ be
doing was to be looking over her last lessons with Mr. Kneebreeches, and
refreshing her memory for the next day; but, alas! knowing one's duty is
by no means the same thing as doing it, and Griselda sat on by the
window doing nothing but grumble and work herself up into a belief that
she was one of the most-to-be-pitied little girls in all the world. So
that by the time Dorcas came to call her to tea, I doubt if she had a
single pleasant thought or feeling left in her heart.

Things grew no better after tea, and before long Griselda asked if she
might go to bed. She was "so tired