“There!  There!” exclaimed the strange girl.  “There is my flying station!  See that precipice?” pointing to a cliff far out on the ledge of the hill over which they were walking.  “Just over there is my station.  I told you I was Bird of Paradise.  I am not—­I am Madam Fly-Fly, the French balloonist.  Now watch me!”

“Don’t!” shrieked Tavia.  But it was too late.  The girl had rushed to the edge of the cliff, and with a wild wave of her arms had thrown herself over!

Tavia, stunned at the suddenness of her tragic action, stood for a moment looking down at the heap of white that lay so far below her.

Then she turned cautiously, and started down the dangerous descent herself, clutching at brush and bramble as she tried to reach the girl, who might be dead, in the moss and rocks that made such a beautiful setting for the stream rambling on, unmindful of the terror on its brink.

Tavia must reach the girl; but what then?

CHAPTER XX

HAPLESS TAVIA

Step by step, or rather, move by move, Tavia struggled to reach in safety that heap of white.

“Oh, if she is only alive!” moaned Tavia.  “Why did I not induce her to go back to the Junction?  I saw she was insane—­and now!”

A huge stone offered her a pause in the dangerous descent.  She stopped and listened.

Then she called:  “Birdie!  Birdie!” No answer.  “Perhaps she hears and does not know—­that name.  Madame Fly-Fly?” she called again, and she thought the sleeve moved—­always that attempt to fly.

Tavia slid down from the rock, trembling in limb and throbbing in nerves.  She had a terrible fear that the girl was either dying or dead.  There with her alone!

On a perfectly flat stone the form lay.  Tavia was beside it now.  She stooped and listened.

“Thank the good Lord she is alive!” gasped Tavia fervently.  “I must—­lift—­her!”

But there was little trouble in turning the light form over, so that the white face looked up into Tavia’s.

“Oh!” sighed the girl.  “Where am I?  Who are you?” There was a change—­a great change in her manner.

“Oh, I am so glad you are alive!” breathed Tavia.  “And how do you feel?”

“As if something—­moved in—­my head.  Where is mother?”

There was no rambling, she spoke coherently!

“Are you hurt?” pressed Tavia.  “If only you can move?”

“I am sure I can,” the sufferer replied, at the same time making an effort to sit up.  “I feel better—­somehow.  How did you come to me?  I had a terrible dream.”

“I met you.  Do you remember your name?”

The girl did not answer at once.  Then she said very slowly:  “I am Mary, but they call me Molly.”

“Mary what?”

“Mary Harriwell.”

Tavia knew better than to ask more questions just then.  She almost forgot their predicament in the joy of seeing the girl apparently sane.