"I had better go back to bed," she said to herself; "but I am not a bit sleepy."
She was just drawing-to the shutter again, when something caught her eye, and she stopped short in surprise. A little bird was outside on the window-sill—a tiny bird crouching in close to the cold glass. Griselda's kind heart was touched in an instant. Cold as she was, she pushed back the shutter again, and drawing a chair forward to the window, managed to unfasten it—it was not a very
heavy one—and to open it wide enough to slip her hand gently along to the bird. It did not start or move.
"Can it be dead?" thought Griselda anxiously.
But no, it was not dead. It let her put her hand round it and draw it in, and to her delight she felt that it was soft and warm, and it even gave a gentle peck on her thumb.
"Poor little bird, how cold you must be," she said kindly. But, to her amazement, no sooner was the bird safely inside the room, than it managed cleverly to escape from her hand. It fluttered quietly up on to her shoulder, and sang out in a soft but cheery tone, "Cuckoo, cuckoo—cold, did you say, Griselda? Not so very, thank you."
Griselda stept back from the window.
"It's you, is it?" she said rather surlily, her tone seeming to infer that she had taken a great deal of trouble for nothing.
"Of course it is, and why shouldn't it be?
You're not generally so sorry to see me. What's the matter?"