"I wonder what it will all look like in the morning," was her last
waking thought. "If it was summer now, or spring, I shouldn't
mind--there would always be something nice to do then."
As sometimes happens, when she woke again, very early in the morning,
long before it was light, her thoughts went straight on with the same
subject.
"If it was summer now, or spring," she repeated to herself, just as if
she had not been asleep at all--like the man who fell into a trance for
a hundred years just as he was saying "it is bitt--" and when he woke up
again finished the sentence as if nothing had happened--"erly cold." "If
only it was spring," thought Griselda.
Just as she had got so far in her thoughts, she gave a great start. What
was it she heard? Could her wish have come true? Was this fairyland
indeed that she had got to, where one only needs to _wish_, for it to
_be_? She rubbed her eyes, but it was too dark to see; _that_ was not
very fairyland-like, but her ears she felt certain had not deceived her:
she was quite, quite sure that she had heard the cuckoo!
She listened with all her might, but she did not hear it again.
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