There was a little sound at last--a faint _coming_ sound, and by the
moonlight Griselda saw the doors open, and out flew the cuckoo. He stood
still for a moment, looked round him as it were, then gently flapped his
wings, and uttered his usual note--"Cuckoo."

Griselda stood in breathless expectation, but in her delight she could
not help very softly clapping her hands.

The cuckoo cleared his throat. You never heard such a funny little noise
as he made; and then, in a very clear, distinct, but yet "cuckoo-y"
voice, he spoke.

"Griselda," he said, "are you truly sorry?"

"I told you I was," she replied. "But I didn't _feel_ so very naughty,
cuckoo. I didn't, really. I was only vexed for one minute, and when I
threw the book I seemed to be a very little in fun, too. And it made me
so unhappy when you went away, and my poor aunts have been dreadfully
unhappy too. If you hadn't come back I should have told them to-morrow
what I had done. I would have told them before, but I was afraid it
would have made them more unhappy. I thought I had hurt you dreadfully."

"So you did," said the cuckoo.

"But you _look_ quite well," said Griselda.

"It was _my feelings_," replied the cuckoo; "and I couldn't help going
away. I have to obey orders like other people."