I was going to ask you to come out into the garden with me." Griselda almost screamed.
"Out into the garden! _Oh_, cuckoo!" she exclaimed, "how can you think of such a thing?
Such a freezing cold night.

Oh no, indeed, cuckoo, I couldn't possibly." "Very well, Griselda," said the cuckoo; "if you haven't yet learnt to trust me, there's no more to be said.

Good-night." He flapped his wings, cried out "Cuckoo" once only, flew across the room, and almost before Griselda understood what he was doing, had disappeared.
She hurried after him, stumbling against the furniture in her haste, and by the uncertain light.

The door was not open, but the cuckoo had got through it--"by the keyhole, I dare say," thought Griselda; "he can 'scrooge' himself up any way"-- for a faint "Cuckoo" was to be heard on its other side.

In a moment Griselda had opened it, and was speeding down the long passage in the dark, guided only by the voice from time to time heard before her, "Cuckoo, cuckoo." She forgot all about the cold, or rather, she did not feel it, though the floor was of uncarpeted old oak, whose hard, polished surface would have usually felt like ice to a child's soft, bare feet.