ere is nothing better for children than to go to bed
early, even if they _are_ going to be ill, Miss Grizzel told her to say
good-night, and to ask Dorcas to give her a wine-glassful of elderberry
wine, nice and hot, after she was in bed.

Griselda had no objection to the elderberry wine, though she felt she
was having it on false pretences. She certainly did not need it to send
her to sleep, for almost before her head touched the pillow she was as
sound as a top. She had slept a good long while, when again she wakened
suddenly--just as she had done the night before, and again with the
feeling that something had wakened her. And the queer thing was that the
moment she was awake she felt so _very_ awake--she had no inclination to
stretch and yawn and hope it wasn't quite time to get up, and think how
nice and warm bed was, and how cold it was outside! She sat straight up,
and peered out into the darkness, feeling quite ready for an adventure.

"Is it you, cuckoo?" she said softly.

There was no answer, but listening intently, the child fancied she heard
a faint rustling or fluttering in the corner of the room by the door.
She got up and, feeling her way, opened it, and the instant she had done
so she heard, a few steps only in front of her it seemed, the familiar
notes, very, _very_ soft and whispered, "Cuckoo, cuckoo."

It went on and on, down the passage, Griselda trotting after. There was
no moon to-night, heavy clouds had quite hidden it, and outside the rain
was falling heavily. Griselda could hear it on the window-panes, through
the closed shutters and all. But dark as it was, she made her way along
without any difficulty, down the passage, across the great saloon, in
through the ante-room door, guided only by the little voice now and then
to be heard in front of her. She came to a standstill right before the
clock, and stood there for a minute or two patiently waiting.

She had not very long to wait. There came the usual murmuring sound,
then the doors above the clock face opened--she heard them open, it was
far too dark to see--and in his ordinary voice, clear and distinct (it
was just two o'clock, so the cuckoo was killing two birds with one
stone, telling the hour and greeting Griselda at once), the bird sang
out, "Cuckoo, cuckoo."

"Good evening, cuckoo," said Griselda, when he had finished.

"Good morning, you mean," said the cuckoo.

"Good morning, then, cuckoo," said Griselda. "Have you considered ab