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.