"He isn't old enough.
The way to the true fairyland is hard to find, and we must each find it for ourselves, mustn't we ?" She looked up in the lady's face as she spoke, and saw that _she_ understood.
"Yes, dear child," she answered softly, and perhaps a very little sadly.
"But Phil and you may help each other, and I perhaps may help you both." Griselda slid her hand into the lady's.

"You're not going to take Phil away, are you ?" she whispered.
"No, I have come to stay here," she answered, "and Phil's father is coming too, soon.

We are going to live at the White House--the house on the other side of the wood, on the way to Merrybrow.

Are you glad, children ?" * * * * * Griselda had a curious dream that night--merely a dream, nothing else.
She dreamt that the cuckoo came once more; this time, he told her, to say "good-bye." "For you will not need me now," he said.
"I leave you in good hands, Griselda.

You have friends now who will understand you--friends who will help you both to work and to play.
Better friends than the mandarins, or the butterflies, or even than your faithful old cuckoo." And when Griselda tried to speak to him, to thank him for his goodness, to beg him still sometimes to come to see her, he gently fluttered away.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo," he warbled; but somehow the last "cuckoo" sounded like "good-bye." In the morning, when Griselda awoke, her pillow was wet with tears.