"First," said Phil gravely, "it was in the night. I was asleep, and I had been wishing I had somebody to play with, and then I d'eamed of the cuckoo—such a nice d'eam. And when I woke up I heard him calling me, and I wasn't d'eaming then. And then when I was in the field he called me, but I couldn't find him, and nurse said 'Nonsense.' And to-day he called me again, so I camed up through the bushes. And mayn't I come again? Perhaps if we both tried together we could find the way to fairyland. Do you think we could?"
"I don't know," said Griselda, dreamily. "There's a great deal to learn first, the cuckoo says."
"Have you learnt a great deal?" (he called it "a gate deal") asked Phil, looking up at Griselda with increased respect. "I don't know scarcely nothing. Mother was ill such a long time before she went away, but I know she wanted me to learn to read books. But nurse is too old to teach me."
"Shall I teach you?" said Griselda. "I can bring some of my old books and teach you here after I have done my own lessons."
"And then mother would be surprised when she comes back," said Master Phil, clapping his hands. "Oh, do. And when I've learnt to read a great deal, do you think the cuckoo would show us the way to fairyland?"
"I don't think it was that sort of learning he meant," said Griselda. "But I dare say that would help. I think," she went on, lowering her voice a little, and looking down gravely into Phil's earnest eyes, "I think he means mostly learning to be very good—very, very good, you know."
"Gooder than you?" said Phil.
"Oh dear, yes; lots and lots gooder than me," replied Griselda.
"I think you're very good," observed Phil, in a parenthesis. Then he went on with his cross-questioning.
"Gooder than mother?"