Griselda stared. "How do you mean?" she asked.

"Never mind. You can't understand at present," said the cuckoo. "You can
understand about obeying _your_ orders, and you see, when you don't,
things go wrong."

"Yes," said Griselda humbly, "they certainly do. But, cuckoo," she
continued, "I never used to get into tempers at home--_hardly_ never,
at least; and I liked my lessons then, and I never was scolded about
them."

"What's wrong here, then?" said the cuckoo. "It isn't often that things
go wrong in this house."

"That's what Dorcas says," said Griselda. "It must be with my being a
child--my aunts and the house and everything have got out of children's
ways."

"About time they did," remarked the cuckoo drily.

"And so," continued Griselda, "it is really very dull. I have lots of
lessons, but it isn't so much that I mind. It is that I've no one to
play with."

"There's something in that," said the cuckoo. He flapped his wings and
was silent for a minute or two. "I'll consider about it," he observed at
last.

"Thank you," said Griselda, not exactly knowing what else to say.