d come; but--the agility by which with help of vines and
twigs she had let herself down these declivities, was not the
strength that would mount them again. It was impossible. Wych
Hazel saw that it was impossible, and certainly she would
never have yielded the conviction but to dire necessity. She
stood considering one particular jump down which she had
made,--nothing but desperation could have taken her back again.

Desperate, however, Wych Hazel did not feel. There was nothing
to do at present but to wait till her friends should find her;
for to go further down would but add to her trouble and lessen
her chance of being soon set free, and indeed, from her
present position even to go down (voluntarily) was no trifle.
So Wych Hazel sat down to wait, amusing herself with thoughts
of the sensation on the cliff, and wondering what sort of
scaling ladders could be improvised in a hurry. They would be
sure to come after her presently. Some one would find her. And
it was a lovely place to wait.

How it happened must remain like other mysteries, unexplained
till the mystery is over, that the person who did find her
again happened to be Mr. Rollo. Yet she had hardly seen him
all day before that. Wych Hazel had half forgotten her
situation in enjoying its beauties and musing in accordance
with them; and then suddenly looking up to the great piece of
rock nearest her, she saw him standing there, looking down at
her with the calm face and handsome gray eyes which she had
noticed before. The girl had been singing half to herself a
wild little Scottish ballad, chiming it in with water and wind
and bird music, taking first one part and then another;
looping together a long chain of pine needles the while,--then
throwing back her sleeve, and laying the frail work across her
arm, above the tiny hair chain, the broad band of gems and the
string of acorns, which banded it; in short, disporting
herself generally. But not the "lullaby, baby, and all," of
the old rhyme, ever had a more sudden and complete downfall.
The first line of

"O wha wad buy a silken goun
Wi' a puir broken heart?"

was left as a mere abstract proposition; and Wych Hazel would
assuredly have 'slipped from her moorings,' but for the
certain fear of tearing her dress, or spraining her ankle, or
doing some other bad thing which should call for immediate
assistance. So she sat still and gazed at the prospect.

Her discoverer presently dropped down by her si