off.  Not by any sudden avalanche or obstacle, animate or inanimate; as peacefully as before the wind waved the ferns on the great stepping stones of cliff and boulder by which she had 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 side and stood there uncovered, as usual, but this time he did not withdraw his eyes from her face.  And when he spoke it was in a new tone, very pleasant, though laying aside a certain distance and form with which he had hitherto addressed her.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ’I begin to think I have known you in a former state of existence?’