She took Griselda through several of the rooms in the house, pointing out all the curiosities, and telling all the histories of the rooms and their contents; and Griselda liked to listen, only in every room they came to, she wondered _when_ they would get to the room where lived the cuckoo.
Aunt Tabitha did not come with them, for she was rather rheumatic.

On the whole, Griselda was not sorry.

It would have taken such a _very_ long time, you see, to have had all the histories twice over, and possibly, if Griselda had got tired, she might have forgotten about the "thank you's" or "no, thank you's" twice over.
The old house looked quite as queer and quaint by daylight as it had seemed the evening before; almost more so indeed, for the view from the windows added to the sweet, odd "old-fashionedness" of everything.
"We have beautiful roses in summer," observed Miss Grizzel, catching sight of the direction in which the child's eyes were wandering.
"I wish it was summer.

I do love summer," said Griselda.

"But there is a very rosy scent in the rooms even now, Aunt Grizzel, though it is winter, or nearly winter." Miss Grizzel looked pleased.
"My pot-pourri," she explained.
They were just then standing in what she called the "great saloon," a handsome old room, furnished with gold-and-white chairs, that must once have been brilliant, and faded yellow damask hangings.