It was a funeral procession, and in the place of chief mourner, with
pale, set face, walked the same young man whom Griselda had last seen
dancing with the girl Sybilla in the great saloon.
The sad group passed slowly out of sight; but as it disappeared there
fell upon the ear the sounds of sweet music, lovelier far than she had
heard before--lovelier than the magic cuckoo's most lovely songs--and
somehow, in the music, it seemed to the child's fancy there were mingled
the soft strains of a woman's voice.
"It is Sybilla singing," thought Griselda dreamily, and with that she
fell asleep again.
* * * * *
When she woke she was in the arm-chair by the ante-room fire,
everything around her looking just as usual, the cuckoo clock ticking
away calmly and regularly. Had it been a dream only? Griselda could not
make up her mind.
"But I don't see that it matters if it was," she said to herself. "If it
was a dream, the cuckoo sent it to me all the same, and I thank you very
much indeed, cuckoo," she went on, looking up at the clock. "The last
picture was rather sad, but still it was very nice to see it, and I
thank you very much, and I'll never say again that I don't like to be
told I'm like my dear pretty grandmother.
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