Griselda.

"Well, so it was. The cuckoo and Miss Sybilla came here the same day. It
was left to her by her mother's father, with whom she had lived since
she was a baby, and when he died she came here to her sisters. She
wasn't _own_ sister to my ladies, you see, missie. Her mother had come
from Germany, and it was in some strange place there, where her
grandfather lived, that the cuckoo clock was made. They make wonderful
clocks there, I've been told, but none more wonderful than our cuckoo,
I'm sure."

"No, I'm _sure_ not," said Griselda, softly. "Why didn't Miss Sybilla
take it with her when she was married and went away?"

"She knew her sisters were so fond of it. It was like a memory of her
left behind for them. It was like a part of her. And do you know,
missie, the night she died--she died soon after your father was born, a
year after she was married--for a whole hour, from twelve to one, that
cuckoo went on cuckooing in a soft, sad way, like some living creature
in trouble. Of course, we did not know anything was wrong with her, and
folks said something had caught some of the springs of the works; but
_I_ didn't think so, and never shall. And----"

But here Dorcas's reminiscences were abruptly brought to a close by Miss
Grizzel's appearance at the other end of the terrace.

"Griselda, what are you loitering so for? Dorcas, you should have
hastened, not delayed Miss Griselda."

So Griselda was hurried off to her lessons, and Dorcas to her kitchen.