"and she is always beautiful

and always is eighteen!"

when he got to the middle of the room the cuckoo cleared his throat, flapped his wings, and began to sing. griselda was quite astonished. she had had no idea that her friend was so accomplished. it wasn't "cuckooing" at all; it was real singing, like that of the nightingale or the thrush, or like something prettier than either. it made griselda think of woods in summer, and of tinkling brooks flowing through them, with the pretty brown pebbles sparkling up through the water; and then it made her think of something sad—she didn't know what; perhaps it was of the babes in the wood and the robins covering them up with leaves—and then again, in a moment, it sounded as if all the merry elves and sprites that ever were heard of had escaped from fairyland, and were rolling over and over with peals of rollicking laughter. and at last, all of a sudden, the song came to an end.

"cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!" rang out three times, clear and shrill. the cuckoo flapped his wings, made a bow to the mandarins, and retired to his old corner.

there was no buzz of talk, as is usual after a performance has come to a close, but there was a great buzz of nodding, and griselda, wishing to give the cuckoo as much praise as she could, nodded as hard as any of them. the cuckoo really looked quite shy at receiving so much applause. but in a minute or two the music struck up and the dancing began again—one, two, three: it seemed a sort of mazurka this time, which suited the mandarins very well, as it gave them a chance of nodding to mark the time.

griselda had once learnt the mazurka, so she got on even better than before—only she would have liked it more if her shoes had had sharper toes; they looked so stumpy when she tried to point them. all the same, it was very good fun, and she was not too well pleased when she suddenly felt the little sharp tap of the cuckoo on her head, and heard him whisper—

"griselda, it's time to go."

"oh dear, why?" she asked. "i'm not a bit tired. why need we go yet?"

"obeying orders," said the cuckoo; and after that, griselda dared not say another word. it was very nearly as bad as being told she had a great deal to learn.

"must i say good-bye to the king and all the people?" she inquired; but before the cuckoo had time to answer, she gave a little squeal. "oh, cuckoo," she cried, "you've trod on my foot."

"i beg your pardon," said the cuckoo.

"i must take off my shoe; it does so hurt," she went on.

"take it off, then," said the cuckoo.

griselda stooped to take off her shoe. "are we going home in the pal——?" she began to say; but she never finished the sentence, for just as she had got her shoe off she felt the cuckoo throw something round her. it was the feather mantle.

and griselda knew nothing more till she opened her eyes the next morning, and saw the first early rays of sunshine peeping in through the chinks of the closed shutters of her little bed-room.

she rubbed her eyes, and sat up in bed. could it have been a dream?

"what could have made me fall asleep so all of a sudden?" she thought. "i wasn't the least sleepy at the mandarins' ball. what fun it was! i believe that cuckoo made me fall asleep on purpose to make me fancy it was a dream. was it a dream?"

she began to feel confused and doubtful, when suddenly she felt something hurting her arm, like a little lump in the bed. she felt with her hand to see if she could smooth it away, and drew out—one of the shoes belonging to her court dress! the very one she had held in her hand at the moment the cuckoo spirited her home again to bed.

"ah, mr. cuckoo!" she exclaimed, "you meant to play me a trick, but you haven't succeeded, you see."

she jumped out of bed and unfastened one of the window-shutters, then jumped in again to admire the little shoe in comfort. it was even prettier than she had thought it at the ball. she held it up and looked at it. it was about the size of the first joint of her little finger. "to think that i should have been dancing with you on last night!" she said to the shoe. "and yet the cuckoo says being big or little is all a matter of fancy. i wonder what he'll think of to amuse me next?"

she was still holding up the shoe and admiring it when dorcas came with the hot water.

"look, dorcas," she said.

"bless me, it's one of the shoes off the chinese dolls in the saloon," exclaimed the old servant. "how ever did you get that, missie? your aunts wouldn't be pleased."

"it just isn't one of the chinese dolls' shoes, and if you don't believe me, you can go and look for yourself," said griselda. "it's my very own shoe, and it was given me to my own self."

dorcas looked at her curiously, but said no more, only as she was going out of the room griselda heard her saying something about "so very like miss sybilla."

"i wonder what 'miss sybilla' was like?" thought griselda. "i have a good mind to ask the cuckoo. he seems to have known her very well."

it was not for some days that griselda had a chance of asking the cuckoo anything. she saw and heard nothing of him—nothing, that is to say, but his regular appearance to tell the hours as usual.

"i suppose," thought griselda, "he thinks the mandarins' ball was fun enough to last me a good while. it really was very good-natured of him to take me to it, so i mustn't grumble."

a few days after this poor griselda caught cold. it was not a very bad cold, i must confess, but her aunts made rather a fuss about it. they wanted her to stay in bed, but to this griselda so much objected that they did not insist upon it.

"it would be so dull," she said piteously. "please let me stay in the ante-room, for all my things are there; and, then, there's the cuckoo."

aunt grizzel smiled at this, and griselda got her way. but even in the ante-room it was rather dull. miss grizzel and miss tabitha were obliged to go out, to drive all the way to merrybrow hall, as lady lavander sent a messenger to say that she had an attack of influenza, and wished to see her friends at once.

miss tabitha began to cry—she was so tender-hearted.

"troubles never come singly," said miss grizzel, by way of consolation.

"no, indeed, they never come singly," said miss tabitha, shaking her head and wiping her eyes.

so off they set; and griselda, in her arm-chair by the ante-room fire, with some queer little old-fashioned books of her aunts', which she had already read more than a dozen times, beside her by way of amusement, felt that there was one comfort in her troubles—she had escaped the long weary drive to her godmother's.

but it was very dull. it got duller and duller. griselda curled herself up in her chair, and wished she could go to sleep, though feeling quite sure she couldn't, for she had stayed in bed much later than usual this morning, and had been obliged to spend the time in sleeping, for want of anything better to do.

she looked up at the clock.

"i don't know even what to wish for," she said to herself. "i don't feel the least inclined to play at anything, and i shouldn't care to go to the mandarins again. oh, cuckoo, cuckoo, i am so dull; couldn't you think of anything to amuse me?"

it was not near "any o'clock." but after waiting a minute or two, it seemed to griselda that she heard the soft sound of "coming" that always preceded the cuckoo's appearance. she was right. in another moment she heard his usual greeting, "cuckoo, cuckoo!"

"oh, cuckoo!" she exclaimed, "i am so glad you have come at last. i am so dull, and it has nothing to do with lessons this time. it's that i've got such a bad cold, and my head's aching, and i'm so tired of reading, all by myself."

"what would you like to do?" said the cuckoo. "you don't want to go to see the mandarins again?"

"oh no; i couldn't dance."

"or the mermaids down under the sea?"

"oh, dear, no," said griselda, with a little shiver, "it would be far too cold. i would just like to stay where i am, if some one would tell me stories. i'm not even sure that i could listen to stories. what could you do to amuse me, cuckoo?"

"would you like to see some pictures?" said the cuckoo. "i could show you pictures without your taking any trouble."

"oh yes, that would be beautiful," cried griselda. "what pictures will you show me? oh, i know. i would like to see the place where you were born—where that very, very clever man made you and the clock, i mean."

"your great-great-grandfather," said the cuckoo. "very well. now, griselda, shut your eyes. first of all, i am going to sing."

griselda shut her eyes, and the cuckoo began his song. it was something like what he had sung at the mandarins' palace, only even more beautiful. it was so soft and dreamy, griselda felt as if she could have sat there for ever, listening to it.

the first notes were low and murmuring. again they made griselda think of little rippling brooks in summer, and now and then there came a sort of hum as of insects buzzing in the warm sunshine near. this humming gradually increased, till at last griselda was conscious of nothing more—everything seemed to be humming, herself too, till at last she fell asleep.

when she opened her eyes, the ante-room and everything in it, except the arm-chair on which she was still curled up, had disappeared—melted away into a misty cloud all round her, which in turn gradually faded, till before her she saw a scene quite new and strange. it was the first of the cuckoo's "pictures."

an old, quaint room, with a high, carved mantelpiece, and a bright fire sparkling in the grate. it was not a pretty room—it had more the look of a workshop of some kind; but it was curious and interesting. all round, the walls were hung with clocks and strange mechanical toys. there was a fiddler slowly fiddling, a gentleman and lady gravely dancing a minuet, a little man drawing up water in a bucket out of a glass vase in which gold fish were swimming about—all sorts of queer figures; and the clocks were even queerer. there was one intended to represent the sun, moon, and planets, with one face for the sun and another for the moon, and gold and silver stars slowly circling round them; there was another clock with a tiny trumpeter perched on a ledge above the face, who blew a horn for the hours. i cannot tell you half the strange and wonderful things there were.

griselda was so interested in looking at all these queer machines, that she did not for some time observe the occupant of the room. and no wonder; he was sitting in front of a little table, so perfectly still, much more still than the un-living figures around him. he was examining, with a magnifying glass, some small object he held in his hand, so closely and intently that griselda, forgetting she was only looking at a "picture," almost held her breath for fear she should disturb him. he was a very old man, his coat was worn and threadbare in several places, looking as if he spent a great part of his life in one position. yet he did not look poor, and his face, when at last he lifted it, was mild and intelligent and very earnest.

while griselda was watching him closely there came a soft tap at the door, and a little girl danced into the room. the dearest little girl you ever saw, and so funnily dressed! her thick brown hair, rather lighter than griselda's, was tied in two long plaits down her back. she had a short red skirt with silver braid round the bottom, and a white chemisette with beautiful lace at the throat and wrists, and over that again a black velvet bodice, also trimmed with silver. and she had a great many trinkets, necklaces, and bracelets, and ear-rings, and a sort of little silver coronet; no, it was not like a coronet, it was a band with a square piece of silver fastened so as to stand up at each side of her head something like a horse's blinkers, only they were not placed over her eyes.

she made quite a jingle as she came into the room, and the old man looked up with a smile of pleasure.

"well, my darling, and are you all ready for your fête?" he said; and though the language in which he spoke was quite strange to griselda, she understood his meaning perfectly well.

"yes, dear grandfather; and isn't my dress lovely?" said the child. "i should be so happy if only you were coming too, and would get yourself a beautiful velvet coat like mynheer van huyten."

the old man shook his head.

"i have no time for such things, my darling," he replied; "and besides, i am too old. i must work—work hard to make money for my pet when i am gone, that she may not be dependent on the bounty of those english sisters."

"but i won't care for money when you are gone, grandfather," said the child, her eyes filling with tears. "i would rather just go on living in this little house, and i am sure the neighbours would give me something to eat, and then i could hear all your clocks ticking, and think of you. i don't want you to sell all your wonderful things for money for me, grandfather. they would remind me of you, and money wouldn't."

"not all, sybilla, not all," said the old man. "the best of all, the chef-d'œuvre of my life, shall not be sold. it shall be yours, and you will have in your possession a clock that crowned heads might seek in vain to purchase."

his dim old eyes brightened, and for a moment he sat erect and strong.

"do you mean the cuckoo clock?" said sybilla, in a low voice.

"yes, my darling, the cuckoo clock, the crowning work of my life—a clock that shall last long after i, and perhaps thou, my pretty child, are crumbling into dust; a clock that shall last to tell my great-grandchildren to many generations that the old dutch mechanic was not altogether to be despised."

sybilla sprang into his arms.

"you are not to talk like that, little grandfather," she said. "i shall teach my children and my grandchildren to be so proud of you—oh, so proud!—as proud as i am of you, little grandfather."

"gently, my darling," said the old man, as he placed carefully on the table the delicate piece of mechanism he held in his hand, and tenderly embraced the child. "kiss me once again, my pet, and then thou must go; thy little friends will be waiting."

as he said these words the mist slowly gathered again before griselda's eyes—the first of the cuckoo's pictures faded from her sight.

when she looked again the scene was changed, but this time it was not a strange one, though griselda had gazed at it for some moments before she recognized it. it was the great saloon, but it looked very different from what she had ever seen it. forty years or so make a difference in rooms as well as in people!

the faded yellow damask hangings were rich and brilliant. there were bouquets of lovely flowers arranged about the tables; wax lights were sending out their brightness in every direction, and the room was filled with ladies and gentlemen in gay attire.

among them, after a time, griselda remarked two ladies, no longer very young, but still handsome and stately, and something whispered to her that they were her two aunts, miss grizzel and miss tabitha.

"poor aunts!" she said softly to herself; "how old they have grown since then."

but she did not long look at them; her attention was attracted by a much younger lady—a mere girl she seemed, but oh, so sweet and pretty! she was dancing with a gentleman whose eyes looked as if they saw no one else, and she herself seemed brimming over with youth and happiness. her very steps had joy in them.

"well, griselda," whispered a voice, which she knew was the cuckoo's; "so you don't like to be told you are like your grandmother, eh?"

griselda turned round sharply to look for the speaker, but he was not to be seen. and when she turned again, the picture of the great saloon had faded away.

one more picture.

griselda looked again. she saw before her a country road in full summer time; the sun was shining, the birds were singing, the trees covered with their bright green leaves—everything appeared happy and joyful. but at last in the distance she saw, slowly approaching, a group of a few people, all walking together, carrying in their centre something long and narrow, which, though the black cloth covering it was almost hidden by the white flowers with which it was thickly strewn, griselda knew to be a coffin.

it was a funeral procession, and in the place of chief mourner, with pale, set face, walked the same young man whom griselda had last seen dancing with the girl sybilla in the great saloon.

the sad group passed slowly out of sight; but as it disappeared there fell upon the ear the sounds of sweet music, lovelier far than she had heard before—lovelier than the magic cuckoo's most lovely songs—and somehow, in the music, it seemed to the child's fancy there were mingled the soft strains of a woman's voice.

"it is sybilla singing," thought griselda dreamily, and with that she fell asleep again.

when she woke she was in the arm-chair by the ante-room fire, everything around her looking just as usual, the cuckoo clock ticking away calmly and regularly. had it been a dream only? griselda could not make up her mind.

"but i don't see that it matters if it was," she said to herself. "if it was a dream, the cuckoo sent it to me all the same, and i thank you very much indeed, cuckoo," she went on, looking up at the clock. "the last picture was rather sad, but still it was very nice to see it, and i thank you very much, and i'll never say again that i don't like to be told i'm like my dear pretty grandmother."

the cuckoo took no notice of what she said, but griselda did not mind. she was getting used to his "ways."

"i expect he hears me quite well," she thought; "and even if he doesn't, it's only civil to try to thank him."

she sat still contentedly enough, thinking over what she had seen, and trying to make more "pictures" for herself in the fire. then there came faintly to her ears the sound of carriage wheels, opening and shutting of doors, a little bustle of arrival.

"my aunts must have come back," thought griselda; and so it was. in a few minutes miss grizzel, closely followed by miss tabitha, appeared at the ante-room door.

"well, my love," said miss grizzel anxiously, "and how are you? has the time seemed very long while we were away?"

"oh no, thank you, aunt grizzel," replied griselda, "not at all. i've been quite happy, and my cold's ever so much better, and my headache's quite gone."

"come, that is good news," said miss grizzel. "not that i'm exactly surprised," she continued, turning to miss tabitha, "for there really is nothing like tansy tea for a feverish cold."

"nothing," agreed miss tabitha; "there really is nothing like it."

"aunt grizzel," said griselda, after a few moments' silence, "was my grandmother quite young when she died?"

"yes, my love, very young," replied miss grizzel with a change in her voice.

"and was her husband very sorry?" pursued griselda.

"heart-broken," said miss grizzel. "he did not live long after, and then you know, my dear, your father was sent to us to take care of. and now he has sent you—the third generation of young creatures confided to our care."

"yes," said griselda. "my grandmother died in the summer, when all the flowers were out; and she was buried in a pretty country place, wasn't she?"

"yes," said miss grizzel, looking rather bewildered.

"and when she was a little girl she lived with her grandfather, the old dutch mechanic," continued griselda, unconsciously using the very words she had heard in her vision. "he was a nice old man; and how clever of him to have made the cuckoo clock, and such lots of other pretty, wonderful things. i don't wonder little sybilla loved him; he was so good to her. but, oh, aunt grizzel, how pretty she was when she was a young lady! that time that she danced with my grandfather in the great saloon. and how very nice you and aunt tabitha looked then, too."

miss grizzel held her very breath in astonishment; and no doubt if miss tabitha had known she was doing so, she would have held hers too. but griselda lay still, gazing at the fire, quite unconscious of her aunt's surprise.

"your papa told you all these old stories, i suppose, my dear," said miss grizzel at last.

"oh no," said griselda dreamily. "papa never told me anything like that. dorcas told me a very little, i think; at least, she made me want to know, and i asked the cuckoo, and then, you see, he showed me it all. it was so pretty."

miss grizzel glanced at her sister.

"tabitha, my dear," she said in a low voice, "do you hear?"

and miss tabitha, who really was not very deaf when she set herself to hear, nodded in awe-struck silence.

"tabitha," continued miss grizzel in the same tone, "it is wonderful! ah, yes, how true it is, tabitha, that 'there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy'" (for miss grizzel was a well-read old lady, you see); "and from the very first, tabitha, we always had a feeling that the child was strangely like sybilla."

"strangely like sybilla," echoed miss tabitha.

"may she grow up as good, if not quite as beautiful—that we could scarcely expect; and may she be longer spared to those that love her," added miss grizzel, bending over griselda, while two or three tears slowly trickled down her aged cheeks. "see, tabitha, the dear child is fast asleep. how sweet she looks! i trust by to-morrow morning she will be quite herself again; her cold is so much better.