“Go to sleep, missie,” she said kindly, “and don’t think anything more about it till to-morrow It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

Her patience touched Griselda.

“You are very kind, Dorcas,” she said.  “I don’t mean to be cross to you; but I can’t bear to think of poor little Phil.  Perhaps he’ll sit down on my mossy stone and cry.  Poor little Phil!”

But notwithstanding her distress, when Dorcas had left her she did feel her heart a little lighter, and somehow or other before long she fell asleep.

When she awoke it seemed to be suddenly, and she had the feeling that something had disturbed her.  She lay for a minute or two perfectly still—­listening.  Yes; there it was—­the soft, faint rustle in the air that she knew so well.  It seemed as if something was moving away from her.

“Cuckoo,” she said gently, “is that you?”

A moment’s pause, then came the answer—­the pretty greeting she expected.

“Cuckoo, cuckoo,” soft and musical.  Then the cuckoo spoke.

“Well, Griselda,” he said, “and how are you?  It’s a good while since we have had any fun together.”

“That’s not my fault,” said Griselda sharply.  She was not yet feeling quite as amiable as might have been desired, you see.  “That’s certainly not my fault,” she repeated.

“I never said it was,” replied the cuckoo.  “Why will you jump at conclusions so?  It’s a very bad habit, for very often you jump over them, you see, and go too far.  One should always walk up to conclusions, very slowly and evenly, right foot first, then left, one with another—­that’s the way to get where you want to go, and feel sure of your ground.  Do you see?”

“I don’t know whether I do or not, and I’m not going to speak to you if you go on at me like that.  You might see I don’t want to be lectured when I am so unhappy.”

“What are you unhappy about?”

“About Phil, of course.  I won’t tell you, for I believe you know,” said Griselda.  “Wasn’t it you that sent him to play with me?  I was so pleased, and I thought it was very kind of you; but it’s all spoilt now.”

“But I heard Dorcas saying that your aunt is going over to consult my Lady Lavander about it,” said the cuckoo.  “It’ll be all right; you needn’t be in such low spirits about nothing.”

“Were you in the room then?” said Griselda.  “How funny you are, cuckoo.  But it isn’t all right.  Don’t you see, poor little Phil will be coming up the wood-path to-morrow afternoon to meet me, and I won’t be there!  I can’t bear to think of it.”

“Is that all?” said the cuckoo.  “It really is extraordinary how some people make troubles out of nothing!  We can easily tell Phil not to come till the day after.  Come along.”

“Come along,” repeated Griselda; “what do you mean?”

“Oh, I forgot,” said the cuckoo.  “You don’t understand.  Put out your hand.  There, do you feel me?”