"I _wish_ you wouldn't make me begin lessons again just yet. I _know_ they'll make my head ache again, and Mr. Kneebreeches will be _so_ cross. I know he will, and he is so horrid when he is cross." "Hush!" said Miss Grizzel, holding up her hand in a way that reminded Griselda of the cuckoo's favourite "obeying orders." Just then, too, in the distance the ante-room clock struck twelve. "Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!" on it went. Griselda could have stamped with irritation, but _somehow_, in spite of herself, she felt compelled to say nothing. She muttered some not very pretty words, coiled herself round on the sofa, opened her book, and began to read. But it was not as interesting as she had expected. She had not read many pages before she began to yawn, and she was delighted to be interrupted by Dorcas and the jelly. But the jelly was not as nice as she had expected, either. She tasted it, and thought it was too sweet; and when she tasted it again, it seemed too strong of cinnamon; and the third taste seemed too strong of everything. She laid down her spoon, and looked about her discontentedly. "What is the matter, my dear?" said Miss Grizzel. "Is the jelly not to your liking?" "I don't know," said Griselda shortly. She ate a few spoonfuls, and then took up her book again. Miss Grizzel said nothing more, but to herself she thought that Mr. Kneebreeches had not been recalled any too soon. All day long it was much the same. Nothing seemed to come right to Griselda. It was a dull, cold day, what is called "a black frost;" not a bright, clear, _pretty_, cold day, but the sort of frost that really makes the world seem dead--makes it almost impossible to believe that there will ever be warmth and sound and "growing-ness" again. Late in the afternoon Griselda crept up to the ante-room, and sat down by the window. Outside it was nearly dark, and inside it was not much more cheerful--for the fire was nearly out, and no lamps were lighted; only the cuckoo clock went on tick-ticking briskly as usual. "I hate winter," said Griselda, pressing her cold little face against the colder window-pane, "I hate winter, and I hate lessons. I would give up being a _person_ in a minute if I might be a--a--what would I best like to be? Oh yes, I know--a butterfly. Butterflies never see winter, and they _certainly_ never have any lessons or any kind of work to do. I hate _must_-ing to do anything." "Cuckoo," rang out suddenly above her head. It was only four o'clock striking, and as soon as he had told it the cuckoo was back behind his doors again in an instant, just as usual. There was nothing for Griselda to feel offended at, but somehow she got quite angry. "I don't care what you think, cuckoo!" she exclaimed defiantly. "I know you came out on purpose just now, but I don't care. I _do_ hate winter, and I _do_ hate lessons, and I _do_ think it would be nicer to be a butterfly than a little girl."