“Cuckoo, cuckoo; wake up, Griselda,” he said.

Griselda sat up.

Where was she?

Not certainly where she had been when she went to sleep.  Not on the cuckoo’s back, for there he was standing beside her, as tiny as usual.  Either he had grown little again, or she had grown big—­which, she supposed, it did not much matter.  Only it was very queer!

“Where am I, cuckoo?” she said.

“Where you wished to be,” he replied.  “Look about you and see.”

Griselda looked about her.  What did she see?  Something that I can only give you a faint idea of, children; something so strange and unlike what she had ever seen before, that only in a dream could you see it as Griselda saw it.  And yet why it seemed to her so strange and unnatural I cannot well explain; if I could, my words would be as good as pictures, which I know they are not.

After all, it was only the sea she saw; but such a great, strange, silent sea, for there were no waves.  Griselda was seated on the shore, close beside the water’s edge, but it did not come lapping up to her feet in the pretty, coaxing way that our sea does when it is in a good humour.  There were here and there faint ripples on the surface, caused by the slight breezes which now and then came softly round Griselda’s face, but that was all.  King Canute might have sat “from then till now” by this still, lifeless ocean without the chance of reading his silly attendants a lesson—­if, indeed, there ever were such silly people, which I very much doubt.

Griselda gazed with all her eyes.  Then she suddenly gave a little shiver.

“What’s the matter?” said the cuckoo.  “You have the mantle on—­you’re not cold?”

“No,” said Griselda, “I’m not cold; but somehow, cuckoo, I feel a little frightened.  The sea is so strange, and so dreadfully big; and the light is so queer, too.  What is the light, cuckoo?  It isn’t moonlight, is it?”

“Not exactly,” said the cuckoo.  “You can’t both have your cake and eat it, Griselda.  Look up at the sky.  There’s no moon there, is there?”

“No,” said Griselda; “but what lots of stars, cuckoo.  The light comes from them, I suppose?  And where’s the sun, cuckoo?  Will it be rising soon?  It isn’t always like this up here, is it?”

“Bless you, no,” said the cuckoo.  “There’s sun enough, and rather too much, sometimes.  How would you like a day a fortnight long, and nights to match?  If it had been daytime here just now, I couldn’t have brought you.  It’s just about the very middle of the night now, and in about a week of your days the sun will begin to rise, because, you see——­”

“Oh, dear cuckoo, please don’t explain!” cried Griselda.  “I’ll promise to ask Mr. Kneebreeches, I will indeed.  In fact, he was telling me something just like it to-day or yesterday—­which should I say?—­at my astronomy lesson.  And that makes it so strange that you should have brought me up here to-night to see for myself, doesn’t it, cuckoo?”