He flew off, and was back almost immediately, followed by a whole flock of butterflies.  They were of a smaller kind than Griselda had hitherto seen, and they were of two colours only; half were blue, half yellow.  They flew up to Griselda, who felt for a moment as if she were really going to be suffocated by them, but only for a moment.  There seemed a great buzz and flutter about her, and then the butterflies set to work to dress her.  And how do you think they dressed her?  With themselves!  They arranged themselves all over her in the cleverest way.  One set of blue ones clustered round the hem of her little white night-gown, making a thick “ruche,” as it were; and then there came two or three thinner rows of yellow, and then blue again.  Round her waist they made the loveliest belt of mingled blue and yellow, and all over the upper part of her night-gown, in and out among the pretty white frills which Dorcas herself “goffered,” so nicely, they made themselves into fantastic trimmings of every shape and kind; bows, rosettes—­I cannot tell you what they did not imitate.

Perhaps the prettiest ornament of all was the coronet or wreath they made of themselves for her head, dotting over her curly brown hair too with butterfly spangles, which quivered like dew-drops as she moved about.  No one would have known Griselda; she looked like a fairy queen, or princess, at least, for even her little white feet had what looked like butterfly shoes upon them, though these, you will understand, were only a sort of make-believe, as, of course, the shoes were soleless.

“Now,” said the cuckoo, when at last all was quiet again, and every blue and every yellow butterfly seemed settled in his place, “now, Griselda, come and look at yourself.”

He led the way to a marble basin, into which fell the waters of one of the tinkling brooks that were to be found everywhere about the garden, and bade Griselda look into the water mirror.  It danced about rather; but still she was quite able to see herself.  She peered in with great satisfaction, turning herself round so as to see first over one shoulder, then over the other.

“It is lovely,” she said at last.  “But, cuckoo, I’m just thinking—­how shall I possibly be able to sit down without crushing ever so many?”

“Bless you, you needn’t trouble about that,” said the cuckoo; “the butterflies are quite able to take care of themselves.  You don’t suppose you are the first little girl they have ever made a dress for?”

Griselda said no more, but followed the cuckoo, walking rather “gingerly,” notwithstanding his assurances that the butterflies could take care of themselves.  At last the cuckoo stopped, in front of a sort of banked-up terrace, in the centre of which grew a strange-looking plant with large, smooth, spreading-out leaves, and on the two topmost leaves, their splendid wings glittering in the sunshine, sat two magnificent