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 last.

“Thank you,” said Griselda, not exactly knowing what else to say.

“And in the meantime,” continued the cuckoo, “you’d better obey present orders and go back to bed.”

“Shall I say good-night to you, then?” asked Griselda somewhat timidly.

“You’re quite welcome to do so,” replied the cuckoo.  “Why shouldn’t you?”

“You see I wasn’t sure if you would like it,” returned Griselda, “for of course you’re not like a person, and—­and—­I’ve been told all sorts of queer things about what fairies like and don’t like.”

“Who said I was a fairy?” inquired the cuckoo.

“Dorcas did, and, of course, my own common sense did too,” replied Griselda.  “You must be a fairy—­you couldn’t be anything else.”

“I might be a fairyfied cuckoo,” suggested the bird.

Griselda looked puzzled.