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 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