“Never mind,” said the cuckoo.  “It’ll show you how little consequence big and little are of.  Make yourself comfortable all the same.  Are you all right?  Shut your eyes if you like.  I’m going pretty fast.”

“Where to?” said Griselda.

“To Phil, of course,” said the cuckoo.  “What a bad memory you have!  Are you comfortable?”

“Very, thank you,” replied Griselda, giving the cuckoo’s neck an affectionate hug as she spoke.

“That’ll do, thank you.  Don’t throttle me, if it’s quite the same to you,” said the cuckoo.  “Here goes—­one, two, three,” and off he flew again.

Griselda shut her eyes and lay still.  It was delicious—­the gliding, yet darting motion, like nothing she had ever felt before.  It did not make her the least giddy, either; but a slightly sleepy feeling came over her.  She felt no inclination to open her eyes; and, indeed, at the rate they were going, she could have distinguished very little had she done so.

Suddenly the feeling in the air about her changed.  For an instant it felt more rushy than before, and there was a queer, dull sound in her ears.  Then she felt that the cuckoo had stopped.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“We’ve just come down a chimney again,” said the cuckoo.  “Open your eyes and clamber down off my back, but don’t speak loud, or you’ll waken him, and that wouldn’t do.  There you are—­the moonlight’s coming in nicely at the window—­you can see your way.”

Griselda found herself in a little bedroom, quite a tiny one, and by the look of the simple furniture and the latticed window, she saw that she was not in a grand house.  But everything looked very neat and nice, and on a little bed in one corner lay a lovely sleeping child.  It was Phil!  He looked so pretty asleep—­his shaggy curls all tumbling about, his rosy mouth half open as if smiling, one little hand tossed over his head, the other tight clasping a little basket which he had insisted on taking to bed with him, meaning as soon as he was dressed the next morning to run out and fill it with flowers for the little girl he had made friends with.

Griselda stepped up to the side of the bed on tiptoe.  The cuckoo had disappeared, but Griselda heard his voice.  It seemed to come from a little way up the chimney.

“Don’t wake him,” said the cuckoo, “but whisper what you want to say into his ear, as soon as I have called him.  He’ll understand; he’s accustomed to my ways.”

Then came the old note, soft and musical as ever—­

“Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.  Listen, Phil,” said the cuckoo, and without opening his eyes a change passed over the little boy’s face.  Griselda could see that he was listening to hear her message.

“He thinks he’s dreaming, I suppose,” she said to herself with a smile.  Then she whispered softly—­

“Phil, dear, don’t come to play with me to-morrow, for I can’t come.  But come the day after.  I’ll be at the wood-path then.”