Griselda stood for a moment in silent delight, feasting her eyes on the lovely things before her, enjoying the delicious sunshine which kissed her poor little bare feet, and seemed to wrap her all up in its warm embrace.  Then she turned to her little friend.

“Cuckoo,” she said, “I thank you so much.  This is fairyland, at last!”

The cuckoo smiled, I was going to say, but that would be a figure of speech only, would it not?  He shook his head gently.

“No, Griselda,” he said kindly; “this is only butterfly-land.”

“Butterfly-land!” repeated Griselda, with a little disappointment in her tone.

“Well,” said the cuckoo, “it’s where you were wishing to be yesterday, isn’t it?”

Griselda did not particularly like these allusions to “yesterday.”  She thought it would be as well to change the subject.

“It’s a beautiful place, whatever it is,” she said, “and I’m sure, cuckoo, I’m very much obliged to you for bringing me here.  Now may I run about and look at everything?  How delicious it is to feel the warm sunshine again!  I didn’t know how cold I was.  Look, cuckoo, my toes and fingers are quite blue; they’re only just beginning to come right again.  I suppose the sun always shines here.  How nice it must be to be a butterfly; don’t you think so, cuckoo?  Nothing to do but fly about.”

She stopped at last, quite out of breath.

“Griselda,” said the cuckoo, “if you want me to answer your questions, you must ask them one at a time.  You may run about and look at everything if you like, but you had better not be in such a hurry.  You will make a great many mistakes if you are—­you have made some already.”

“How?” said Griselda.

“Have the butterflies nothing to do but fly about?  Watch them.”

Griselda watched.

“They do seem to be doing something,” she said, at last, “but I can’t think what.  They seem to be nibbling at the flowers, and then flying away something like bees gathering honey. Butterflies don’t gather honey, cuckoo?”

“No,” said the cuckoo.  “They are filling their paint-boxes.”

“What do you mean?” said Griselda.

“Come and see,” said the cuckoo.

He flew quietly along in front of her, leading the way through the prettiest paths in all the pretty garden.  The paths were arranged in different colours, as it were; that is to say, the flowers growing along their sides were not all “mixty-maxty,” but one shade after another in regular order—­from the palest blush pink to the very deepest damask crimson; then, again, from the soft greenish blue of the small grass forget-me-not to the rich warm tinge of the brilliant cornflower. Every tint was there; shades, to which, though not exactly strange to her, Griselda could yet have given no name, for the daisy dew, you see, had sharpened her eyes to observe delicate variations of colour, as she had never done before.