"for now and then there comes a day

when everything goes wrong."

griselda's cold was much better by "to-morrow morning." in fact, i might almost say it was quite well.

but griselda herself did not feel quite well, and saying this reminds me that it is hardly sense to speak of a cold being better or well—for a cold's being "well" means that it is not there at all, out of existence, in short, and if a thing is out of existence how can we say anything about it? children, i feel quite in a hobble—i cannot get my mind straight about it—please think it over and give me your opinion. in the meantime, i will go on about griselda.

she felt just a little ill—a sort of feeling that sometimes is rather nice, sometimes "very extremely" much the reverse! she felt in the humour for being petted, and having beef-tea, and jelly, and sponge cake with her tea, and for a day or two this was all very well. she was petted, and she had lots of beef-tea, and jelly, and grapes, and sponge cakes, and everything nice, for her aunts, as you must have seen by this time, were really very, very kind to her in every way in which they understood how to be so.

but after a few days of the continued petting, and the beef-tea and the jelly and all the rest of it, it occurred to miss grizzel, who had a good large bump of "common sense," that it might be possible to overdo this sort of thing.

"tabitha," she said to her sister, when they were sitting together in the evening after griselda had gone to bed, "tabitha, my dear, i think the child is quite well again now. it seems to me it would be well to send a note to good mr. kneebreeches, to say that she will be able to resume her studies the day after to-morrow."

"the day after to-morrow," repeated miss tabitha. "the day after to-morrow—to say that she will be able to resume her studies the day after to-morrow—oh yes, certainly. it would be very well to send a note to good mr. kneebreeches, my dear grizzel."

"i thought you would agree with me," said miss grizzel, with a sigh of relief (as if poor miss tabitha during all the last half-century had ever ventured to do anything else), getting up to fetch her writing materials as she spoke. "it is such a satisfaction to consult together about what we do. i was only a little afraid of being hard upon the child, but as you agree with me, i have no longer any misgiving."

"any misgiving, oh dear, no!" said miss tabitha. "you have no reason for any misgiving, i am sure, my dear grizzel."

so the note was written and despatched, and the next morning when, about twelve o'clock, griselda made her appearance in the little drawing-room where her aunts usually sat, looking, it must be confessed, very plump and rosy for an invalid, miss grizzel broached the subject.

"i have written to request mr. kneebreeches to resume his instructions 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 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," she said; and she certainly looked so, for ill-humour and idleness are excellent "tirers," and will soon take the roses out of a child's cheeks, and the brightness out of her eyes. she held up her face to be kissed by her aunts in a meekly reproachful way, which made the old ladies feel quite uncomfortable.

"i am by no means sure that i have done right in recalling mr. kneebreeches so soon, sister tabitha," remarked miss grizzel, uneasily, when griselda had left the room. but miss tabitha was busy counting her stitches, and did not give full attention to miss grizzel's observation, so she just repeated placidly, "oh yes, sister grizzel, you may be sure you have done right in recalling mr. kneebreeches."

"i am glad you think so," said miss grizzel, with again a little sigh of relief. "i was only distressed to see the child looking so white and tired,"

upstairs griselda was hurry-scurrying into bed. there was a lovely fire in her room—fancy that! was she not a poor neglected little creature? but even this did not please her. she was too cross to be pleased with anything; too cross to wash her face and hands, or let dorcas brush her hair out nicely as usual; too cross, alas, to say her prayers! she just huddled into bed, huddling up her mind in an untidy hurry and confusion, just as she left her clothes in an untidy heap on the floor. she would not look into herself, was the truth of it; she shrank from doing so because she knew things had been going on in that silly little heart of hers in a most unsatisfactory way all day, and she wanted to go to sleep and forget all about it.

she did go to sleep, very quickly too. no doubt she really was tired; tired with crossness and doing nothing, and she slept very soundly. when she woke up she felt so refreshed and rested that she fancied it must be morning. it was dark, of course, but that was to be expected in mid-winter, especially as the shutters were closed.

"i wonder," thought griselda, "i wonder if it really is morning. i should like to get up early—i went so early to bed. i think i'll just jump out of bed and open a chink of the shutters. i'll see at once if it's nearly morning, by the look of the sky."

she was up in a minute, feeling her way across the room to the window, and without much difficulty she found the hook of the shutters, unfastened it, and threw one side open. ah no, there was no sign of morning to be seen. there was moonlight, but nothing else, and not so very much of that, for the clouds were hurrying across the "orbêd maiden's" face at such a rate, one after the other, that the light was more like a number of pale flashes than the steady, cold shining of most frosty moonlight nights. there was going to be a change of weather, and the cloud armies were collecting together from all quarters; that was the real explanation of the hurrying and skurrying griselda saw overhead, but this, of course, she did not understand. she only saw that it looked wild and stormy, and she shivered a little, partly with cold, partly with a half-frightened feeling that she could not have explained.

"i had better go back to bed," she said to herself; "but i am not a bit sleepy."

she was just drawing-to the shutter again, when something caught her eye, and she stopped short in surprise. a little bird was outside on the window-sill—a tiny bird crouching in close to the cold glass. griselda's kind heart was touched in an instant. cold as she was, she pushed back the shutter again, and drawing a chair forward to the window, managed to unfasten it—it was not a very heavy one—and to open it wide enough to slip her hand gently along to the bird. it did not start or move.

"can it be dead?" thought griselda anxiously.

but no, it was not dead. it let her put her hand round it and draw it in, and to her delight she felt that it was soft and warm, and it even gave a gentle peck on her thumb.

"poor little bird, how cold you must be," she said kindly. but, to her amazement, no sooner was the bird safely inside the room, than it managed cleverly to escape from her hand. it fluttered quietly up on to her shoulder, and sang out in a soft but cheery tone, "cuckoo, cuckoo—cold, did you say, griselda? not so very, thank you."

griselda stept back from the window.

"it's you, is it?" she said rather surlily, her tone seeming to infer that she had taken a great deal of trouble for nothing.

"of course it is, and why shouldn't it be? you're not generally so sorry to see me. what's the matter?"

"nothing's the matter," replied griselda, feeling a little ashamed of her want of civility; "only, you see, if i had known it was you——" she hesitated.

"you wouldn't have clambered up and hurt your poor fingers in opening the window if you had known it was me—is that it, eh?" said the cuckoo.

somehow, when the cuckoo said "eh?" like that, griselda was obliged to tell just what she was thinking.

"no, i wouldn't have needed to open the window," she said. "you can get in or out whenever you like; you're not like a real bird. of course, you were just tricking me, sitting out there and pretending to be a starved robin."

there was a little indignation in her voice, and she gave her head 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 was a very long passage, and to-night, somehow, it seemed longer than ever. in fact, griselda could have fancied she had been running along it for half a mile or more, when at last she was brought to a standstill by finding she could go no further. where was she? she could not imagine! it must be a part of the house she had never explored in the daytime, she decided. in front of her was a little stair running downwards, and ending in a doorway. all this griselda could see by a bright light that streamed in by the keyhole and through the chinks round the door—a light so brilliant that the little girl blinked her eyes, and for a moment felt quite dazzled and confused.

"it came so suddenly," she said to herself; "some one must have lighted a lamp in there all at once. but it can't be a lamp, it's too bright for a lamp. it's more like the sun; but how ever could the sun be shining in a room in the middle of the night? what shall i do? shall i open the door and peep in?"

"cuckoo, cuckoo," came the answer, soft but clear, from the other side.

"can it be a trick of the cuckoo's to get me out into the garden?" thought griselda; and for the first time since she had run out of her room a shiver of cold made her teeth chatter and her skin feel creepy.

"cuckoo, cuckoo," sounded again, nearer this time, it seemed to griselda.

"he's waiting for me. i will trust him," she said resolutely. "he has always been good and kind, and it's horrid of me to think he's going to trick me."

she ran down the little stair, she seized the handle of the door. it turned easily; the door opened—opened, and closed again noiselessly behind her, and what do you think she saw?

"shut your eyes for a minute, griselda," said the cuckoo's voice beside her; "the light will dazzle you at first. shut them, and i will brush them with a little daisy dew, to strengthen them."

griselda did as she was told. she felt the tip of the cuckoo's softest feather pass gently two or three times over her eyelids, and a delicious scent seemed immediately to float before her.

"i didn't know daisies had any scent," she remarked.

"perhaps you didn'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.