Griselda stood in breathless expectation, but in her delight she could not help very softly clapping her hands.
The cuckoo cleared his throat. You never heard such a funny little noise as he made; and then, in a very clear, distinct, but yet "cuckoo-y" voice, he spoke.
"Griselda," he said, "are you truly sorry?"
"I told you I was," she replied. "But I didn't feel so very naughty, cuckoo. I didn't, really. I was only vexed for one minute, and when I threw the book I seemed to be a very little in fun, too. And it made me so unhappy when you went away, and my poor aunts have been dreadfully unhappy too. If you hadn't come back I should have told them tomorrow what I had done. I would have
told them before, but I was afraid it would have made them more unhappy. I thought I had hurt you dreadfully."
"So you did," said the cuckoo.
"But you look quite well," said Griselda.
"It was my feelings," replied the cuckoo; "and I couldn't help going away. I have to obey orders like other people."
Griselda stared. "How do you mean?" she asked.
"Never mind. You can't understand at present," said the cuckoo. "You can understand about obeying your orders, and you see, when you don't, things go wrong."