room, reaching her ear, reminded her of the object of this midnight
expedition of hers. She hurried into the ante-room.

It looked darker than the great saloon, for it had but one window. But
through the uncovered space at the top of this window there penetrated
some brilliant moonbeams, one of which lighted up brightly the face of
the clock with its queer over-hanging eaves.

[Illustration: "WHY WON'T YOU SPEAK TO ME?"]

Griselda approached it and stood below, looking up.

"Cuckoo," she said softly--very softly.

But there was no reply.

"Cuckoo," she repeated rather more loudly. "Why won't you speak to me? I
know you are there, and you're not asleep, for I heard your voice in my
own room. Why won't you come out, cuckoo?"

"Tick-tick" said the clock, but there was no other reply.

Griselda felt ready to cry.

"Cuckoo," she said reproachfully, "I didn't think you were so
hard-hearted. I have been _so_ unhappy about you, and I was so pleased
to hear your voice again, for I thought I had killed you, or hurt you
very badly; and I didn't _mean_ to hurt you, cuckoo. I was sorry the
moment I had done it, _dreadfully_ sorry. Dear cuckoo, won't you
forgive me?"