She lay for a minute or two perfectly still--listening.

Yes; there it was--the soft, faint rustle in the air that she knew so well.

It seemed as if something was moving away from her.
"Cuckoo," she said gently, "is that you ?" A moment's pause, then came the answer--the pretty greeting she expected.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," soft and musical.

Then the cuckoo spoke.
"Well, Griselda," he said, "and how are you?
It's a good while since we have had any fun together." "That's not _my_ fault," said Griselda sharply.

She was not yet feeling quite as amiable as might have been desired, you see.