up into such an unnatural attitude to write her copies, that she really felt as if she would never come straight and loose again; and the arithmetic part of his instructions was even worse.  Oh! what sums in addition he gave her!  Griselda had never been partial to sums, and her rather easy-going governess at home had not, to tell the truth, been partial to them either.  And Mr.—­I can’t remember the little old gentleman’s name.  Suppose we call him Mr. Kneebreeches—­Mr. Kneebreeches, when he found this out, conscientiously put her back to the very beginning.

It was dreadful, really.  He came twice a week, and the days he didn’t come were as bad as those he did, for he left her a whole row I was going to say, but you couldn’t call Mr. Kneebreeches’ addition sums “rows,” they were far too fat and wide across to be so spoken of!—­whole slatefuls of these terrible mountains of figures to climb wearily to the top of.  And not to climb once up merely. The terrible thing was Mr. Kneebreeches’ favourite method of what he called “proving.”  I can’t explain it—­it is far beyond my poor powers—­but it had something to do with cutting off the top line, after you had added it all up and had actually done the sum, you understand—­cutting off the top line and adding the long rows up again without it, and then joining it on again somewhere else.

“I wouldn’t mind so much,” said poor Griselda, one day, “if it was any good.  But you see, Aunt Grizzel, it isn’t.  For I’m just as likely to do the proving wrong as the sum itself—­more likely, for I’m always so tired when I get to the proving—­and so all that’s proved is that something’s wrong, and I’m sure that isn’t any good, except to make me cross.”

“Hush!” said her aunt gravely.  “That is not the way for a little girl to speak.  Improve these golden hours of youth, Griselda; they will never return.”

“I hope not,” muttered Griselda, “if it means doing sums.”

Miss Grizzel fortunately was a little deaf; she did not hear this remark.  Just then the cuckoo clock struck eleven.

“Good little cuckoo,” said Miss Grizzel.  “What an example he sets you.  His life is spent in the faithful discharge of duty;” and so saying she left the room.

The cuckoo was still telling the hour—­eleven took a good while.  It seemed to Griselda that the bird repeated her aunt’s last words.  “Faith—­ful, dis—­charge, of—­your, du—­ty,” he said, “faith—­ful.”

“You horrid little creature!” exclaimed Griselda in a passion; “what business have you to mock me?”

She seized a book, the first that came to hand, and flung it at the bird who was just beginning his eleventh cuckoo.  He disappeared with a snap, disappeared without flapping his wings, or, as Griselda always fancied he did, giving her a friendly nod, and in an instant all was silent.