The next day was devoted to a musical pic-nic at the Falls.  It was musical, in as much as a band had been fetched up to play on the rocks, while the company filled the house and balcony, and an occasional song or duet, which ladies asked for ’just to see how they would sound there,’ kept up the delusion.  By what rule it was a pic-nic it might be difficult to discover, except that it had been so styled.  Eatables and drinkables were, to be sure, a prominent portion of the entertainment, and they were discussed with more informality and a good deal less convenience than if in their regular place.  But, however, the rocks and the wildness lent them a charm, perhaps of novelty, and the whole affair seemed to be voted a success.

Success fell so largely to Miss Hazel’s share, that she by times was a little weary of it, or of its consequences; and this day finding herself in a most inevitable crowd, do what she could, she fairly ran away for a breath of air with no musk in it.  Making one or two the honoured confidants of her intention, that she might secure their staying where they were and keeping others, and promising to return soon, she slipped away down the stairs by the Fall.  All the party had been there that morning, as in duty bound, and had gone where it was the rule to go.  Now Wych Hazel sprang along by herself, to take the wildness and the beauty in silence and at her own pleasure.  At the upper basin of the Fall she turned off, and coasted the narrow path under the rock, around the basin.  At the other side, where the company had been contented to turn about, Wych Hazel passed on; till she found herself a seat on a projecting rock, from which a wild, wooded ravine of the hills stretched out before her eyes.  The sides were so bold, the sweep of them so extended, the woods so luxuriantly rich, the scene so desolate in its loneliness and wildness, that she sat down to dream in a trance of enjoyment.  Not a sound now but the plash of the water, the scream of a wild bird, and the rustle of leaves.  Not a human creature in sight, or the trace of one.  Wych might imagine the times when red Indians roved among those hillsides—­the place looked like them; but rare were the white hunters that broke their solitudes.  It was delicious.  The very air that fanned her face had come straight from a wilderness, a wilderness where it blew only over sweet things.  It refreshed her, after those people up on the balcony.  She had promised to be back soon:  but now a rosy flower, or spike of flowers, of tempting elegance, caught her eye.  It was down below her, a little way, not far; a very rough and steep way, but no matter, she must have the flower, and deftly and daintily she clambered down:  the flower looked lovelier the nearer she got to it, and very rare and exquisite she found it to be, as soon as she had it in her hands.  It was not till she had examined and rejoiced over it, that addressing herself to go back, Wych Hazel found her retreat cut