It went on and on, down the passage, Griselda trotting after. There was no moon to-night, heavy clouds had quite hidden it, and outside the rain was falling heavily. Griselda could hear it on the window-panes, through the closed shutters and all. But dark as it was, she made her way along without any difficulty, down the passage, across the great saloon, in through the ante-room door, guided only by the little voice now and then to be heard in front of her. She came to a standstill right before the clock, and stood there for a minute or two patiently waiting. She had not very long to wait. There came the usual murmuring sound, then the doors above the clock face opened--she heard them open, it was far too dark to see--and in his ordinary voice, clear and distinct (it was just two o'clock, so the cuckoo was killing two birds with one stone, telling the hour and greeting Griselda at once), the bird sang out, "Cuckoo, cuckoo." "Good evening, cuckoo," said Griselda, when he had finished. "Good morning, you mean," said the cuckoo. "Good morning, then, cuckoo," said Griselda. "Have you considered about me, cuckoo?" The cuckoo cleared his throat. "Have you learnt to obey orders yet, Griselda?" he inquired. "I'm trying," replied Griselda. "But you see, cuckoo, I've not had very long to learn in--it was only last night you told me, you know." The cuckoo sighed. "You've a great deal to learn, Griselda." "I dare say I have," she said. "But I can tell you one thing, cuckoo--whatever lessons I have, I _couldn't_ ever have any worse than those addition sums of Mr. Kneebreeches'. I have made up my mind about that, for to-day, do you know, cuckoo----" "Yesterday," corrected the cuckoo. "Always be exact in your statements, Griselda." "Well, yesterday, then," said Griselda, rather tartly; "though when you know quite well what I mean, I don't see that you need be so _very_ particular. Well, as I was saying, I tried and _tried_, but still they were fearful. They were, indeed." "You've a great deal to learn, Griselda," repeated the cuckoo. "I wish you wouldn't say that so often," said Griselda. "I thought you were going to _play_ with me." "There's something in that," said the cuckoo, "there's something in that. I should like to talk about it. But we could talk more comfortably if you would come up here and sit beside me." Griselda thought her friend must be going out of his mind. "Sit beside you up there!" she exclaimed. "Cuckoo, how _could_ I? I'm far, far too big." "Big!" returned the cuckoo. "What do you mean by big? It's all a matter of fancy. Don't you know that if the world and everything in it, counting yourself of course, was all made little enough to go into a walnut, you'd never find out the difference." "_Wouldn't_ I?" said Griselda, feeling rather muddled; "but, _not_ counting myself, cuckoo, I would then, wouldn't I?"