There was going to be a change of weather, and the cloud armies were collecting together from all quarters; that was the real explanation of the hurrying and skurrying Griselda saw overhead, but this, of course, she did not understand.

She only saw that it looked wild and stormy, and she shivered a little, partly with cold, partly with a half-frightened feeling that she could not have explained.
"I had better go back to bed," she said to herself; "but I am not a bit sleepy." 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 windowsill--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.