Already it was growing dusk; already the moon's soft light was beginning faintly to glimmer through the branches.
Griselda looked up to the sky.
"To think," she said to herself--"to think that I should not know my way in a little bit of a wood like this--I that was up at the other side of the moon last night." The remembrance put another thought into her mind.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," she said softly, "couldn't you help us ?" Then she stood still and listened, holding Phil's cold little hands in her own.
She was not disappointed.

Presently, in the distance, came the well-known cry, "cuckoo, cuckoo," so soft and far away, but yet so clear.
Phil clapped his hands.
"He's calling us," he cried joyfully.

"He's going to show us the way.
That's how he calls me always.

Good cuckoo, we're coming;" and, pulling Griselda along, he darted down the road to the right--the direction from whence came the cry.
They had some way to go, for they had wandered far in a wrong direction, but the cuckoo never failed them.

Whenever they were at a loss--whenever the path turned or divided, they heard his clear, sweet call; and, without the least misgiving, they followed it, till at last it brought them out upon the high-road, a stone's throw from Farmer Crouch's gate.
"I know the way now, good cuckoo," exclaimed Phil.