She sat watching for another minute in perfect stillness, afraid of startling by the slightest movement the squirrel or rabbit or creature of some kind which she expected to see.

At last--was that a squirrel or rabbit--that rosy, round face, with shaggy, fair hair falling over the eager blue eyes, and a general look of breathlessness and over-heatedness and determination?
A squirrel or a rabbit! No, indeed, but a very sturdy, very merry, very ragged little boy.
"Where are that cuckoo?
Does _you_ know ?" were the first words he uttered, as soon as he had fairly shaken himself, though not by any means all his clothes, free of the bushes (for ever so many pieces of jacket and knickerbockers, not to speak of one boot and half his hat, had been left behind on the way), and found breath to say something.
[Illustration: "WHERE ARE THAT CUCKOO ?"] Griselda stared at him for a moment without speaking.

She was so astonished.

It was months since she had spoken to a child, almost since she had seen one, and about children younger than herself she knew very little at any time, being the baby of the family at home, you see, and having only big brothers older than herself for play-fellows.
"Who are you ?" she said at last.

"What's your name, and what do you want ?" "My name's Master Phil, and I want that cuckoo," answered the little boy.