She was too cross to be pleased with anything; too cross to wash her face and hands, or let Dorcas brush her hair out nicely as usual; too cross, alas, to say her prayers! She just huddled into bed, huddling up her mind in an untidy hurry and confusion, just as she left her clothes in an untidy heap on the floor.

She would not look into herself, was the truth of it; she shrank from doing so because she _knew_ things had been going on in that silly little heart of hers in a most unsatisfactory way all day, and she wanted to go to sleep and forget all about it.
She did go to sleep, very quickly too.

No doubt she really was tired; tired with crossness and doing nothing, and she slept very soundly.

When she woke up she felt so refreshed and rested that she fancied it must be morning.

It was dark, of course, but that was to be expected in mid-winter, especially as the shutters were closed.
"I wonder," thought Griselda, "I wonder if it really _is_ morning.