She was just drawing-to the shutter again, when something caught her eye, and she stopped short in surprise. A little bird was outside on the window-sill--a tiny bird crouching in close to the cold glass. Griselda's kind heart was touched in an instant. Cold as she was, she pushed back the shutter again, and drawing a chair forward to the window, managed to unfasten it--it was not a very heavy one--and to open it wide enough to slip her hand gently along to the bird. It did not start or move. "Can it be dead?" thought Griselda anxiously. But no, it was not dead. It let her put her hand round it and draw it in, and to her delight she felt that it was soft and warm, and it even gave a gentle peck on her thumb. "Poor little bird, how cold you must be," she said kindly. But, to her amazement, no sooner was the bird safely inside the room, than it managed cleverly to escape from her hand. It fluttered quietly up on to her shoulder, and sang out in a soft but cheery tone, "Cuckoo, cuckoo--cold, did you say, Griselda? Not so very, thank you." Griselda stept back from the window. "It's _you_, is it?" she said rather surlily, her tone seeming to infer that she had taken a great deal of trouble for nothing. "Of course it is, and why shouldn't it be? You're not generally so sorry to see me. What's the matter?" "Nothing's the matter," replied Griselda, feeling a little ashamed of her want of civility; "only, you see, if I had known it was _you_----" She hesitated. "You wouldn't have clambered up and hurt your poor fingers in opening the window if you had known it was me--is that it, eh?" said the cuckoo. Somehow, when the cuckoo said "eh?" like that, Griselda was obliged to tell just what she was thinking. "No, I wouldn't have _needed_ to open the window," she said. "_You_ can get in or out whenever you like; you're not like a real bird. Of course, you were just tricking me, sitting out there and pretending to be a starved robin." There was a little indignation in her voice, and she gave her head a toss, which nearly upset the cuckoo. "Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed the cuckoo. "You have a great deal to complain of, Griselda. Your time and strength must be very valuable for you to regret so much having wasted a little of them on me." Griselda felt her face grow red. What did he mean? Did he know how yesterday had been spent? She said nothing, but she drooped her head, and one or two tears came slowly creeping up to her eyes. "Child!" said the cuckoo, suddenly changing his tone, "you are very foolish. Is a kind thought or action _ever_ wasted? Can your eyes see what such good seeds grow into? They have wings, Griselda--kindnesses have wings and roots, remember that--wings that never droop, and roots that never die. What do you think I came and sat outside your window for?" "Cuckoo," said Griselda humbly, "I am very sorry."