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
