"It looks prettier with the light coming in at those holes at the top than even if the shutters were open," she said to herself. "How goldy-silvery the cabinet looks; and, yes, I do declare, the mandarins are nodding! I wonder if it is out of politeness to me, or does Aunt Grizzel come in last thing at night and touch them to make them keep nodding till morning? I _suppose_ they're a sort of policemen to the palace; and I dare say there are all sorts of beautiful things inside. How I should like to see all through it!" But at this moment the faint tick-tick of the cuckoo clock in the next room, reaching her ear, reminded her of the object of this midnight expedition of hers. She hurried into the ante-room. It looked darker than the great saloon, for it had but one window. But through the uncovered space at the top of this window there penetrated some brilliant moonbeams, one of which lighted up brightly the face of the clock with its queer over-hanging eaves. Griselda approached it and stood below, looking up. "Cuckoo," she said softly--very softly. But there was no reply. "Cuckoo," she repeated rather more loudly. "Why won't you speak to me? I know you are there, and you're not asleep, for I heard your voice in my own room. Why won't you come out, cuckoo?" "Tick-tick," said the clock, but there was no other reply. Griselda felt ready to cry. "Cuckoo," she said reproachfully, "I didn't think you were so hard-hearted. I have been _so_ unhappy about you, and I was so pleased to hear your voice again, for I thought I had killed you, or hurt you very badly; and I didn't _mean_ to hurt you, cuckoo. I was sorry the moment I had done it, _dreadfully_ sorry. Dear cuckoo, won't you forgive me?" [Illustration: SHE COULD NOT HELP VERY SOFTLY CLAPPING HER HANDS] 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 tomorrow 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.