idn't. You forget, Griselda, that you have a great----"

"Oh, please don't, cuckoo. Please, please don't, _dear_ cuckoo," she
exclaimed, dancing about with her hands clasped in entreaty, but her
eyes still firmly closed. "Don't say that, and I'll promise to believe
whatever you tell me. And how soon may I open my eyes, please, cuckoo?"

"Turn round slowly, three times. That will give the dew time to take
effect," said the cuckoo. "Here goes--one--two--three. There, now."

Griselda opened her eyes.

[Illustration]

VII

BUTTERFLY-LAND

[Illustration]

"I'd be a butterfly."

Griselda opened her eyes.

What did she see?

The loveliest, loveliest garden that ever or never a little girl's eyes
saw. As for describing it, I cannot. I must leave a good deal to your
fancy. It was just a _delicious_ garden.

There was a charming mixture of all that is needed to make a garden
perfect--grass, velvety lawn rather; water, for a little brook ran
tinkling in and out, playing bopeep among the bushes; trees, of course,
and flowers, of course, flowers of every shade and shape. But all these
beautiful things Griselda did not at first give as much attention to as
they deserved; her eyes were so occupied with a quite unusual sight that
met them.

This was butterflies! Not that butterflies are so very uncommon; but
butterflies, as Griselda saw them, I am quite sure, children, none of
you ever saw, or are likely to see. There were such enormous numbers of
them, and the variety of their colours and sizes was so great. They were
fluttering about everywhere; the garden seemed actually alive with them.

Griselda stood for a moment in silent delight, feasting her eyes on the
lovely things before her, enjoying the delicious sunshine which kissed
her poor little bare feet, and seemed to wrap her all up in its warm
embrace. Then she turned to her little friend.

"Cuckoo," she said, "I thank you _so_ much. This _is_ fairyland, at
last!"

The cuckoo smiled, I was going to say, but that would be a figure of
speech only, would it not? He shook his head gently.

"No, Griselda," he said kindly; "this is only butterfly-land."

"_Butterfly_-land!" repeated Griselda, with a little disappointment in
her tone.

"Well," said the cuckoo, "it's where you were wishing to be yesterday,
isn't it?"

Griselda did not particularly like these allusions to "yesterday." She
thought it would be as well to change the subject.

"It's a