her aunts so pale and troubled; and though she tried to persuade herself
that she thought them very silly, she could not throw off the
uncomfortable feeling.

She was so tired when she went to bed--tired in the disagreeable way
that comes from a listless, uneasy day--that she fell asleep at once and
slept heavily. When she woke, which she did suddenly, and with a start,
it was still perfectly dark, like the first morning that she had wakened
in the old house. It seemed to her that she had not wakened of
herself--something had roused her. Yes! there it was again, a very,
_very_ soft distant "cuckoo." _Was_ it distant? She could not tell.
Almost she could have fancied it was close to her.

"If it's that cuckoo come back again, I'll catch him!" exclaimed
Griselda.

She darted out of bed, felt her way to the door, which was closed, and
opening it let in a rush of moonlight from the unshuttered passage
window. In another moment her little bare feet were pattering along the
passage at full speed, in the direction of the great saloon.

For Griselda's childhood among the troop of noisy brothers had taught
her one lesson--she was afraid of nothing. Or rather perhaps I should
say she had never learnt that there was anything to be afraid of! And is
there?




CHAPTER III.