"I don't know. That he's alive at all proves that the air isn't as bad as I thought. Besides, he may not have broken any bones. He's had fearful falls, before this, and he always came out about sound. But the rope doesn't reach much more than two-thirds down. I've heard they dug this well a hundred and fifty feet deep. They had to, to reach water from top this rock."
"A hundred and fifty feet! How can we possibly reach him?"
"Not by standin' talkin'. Whisk to the cottage, Amy, an' beg the length of all the rope they have. To save a lad's life—be nimble!"
The girl was away long before Cleena finished speaking, while the latter herself darted into the house, caught off the sheets and blankets from the beds, and tore them into strips. Never wasting one motion of her strong hands, and praying ceaselessly, she tied each fresh length and tested it with all her force.
Meanwhile Amy almost flew over the space between "Spite House" and the cottage, arriving there nigh breathless; but gasping out her errand, she rushed straight to the line in the drying yard and began to tear it from its fastenings on the poles.
"You're wanting my rope, miss? Somebody in the well? Heaven help him! But wait! If it's cleaning the well he is, why of course he'd be down there. Who is it?"
"Fayette. Maybe you know him as 'Bony.'"
"The half-wit? Pshaw, Miss. Don't look that frightened. He's all safe, never fear. Nothing hurts him. The Lord looks after him. I'm afraid this rope won't hold, it's so old. Wait, I'll go, too. Never mind the children, they'll have to take care of themselves."
All the while she was talking the kindly woman had been rolling the line, retying it where their haste broke its worn strands, and following Amy up over the slope. Now she paused for one second to remonstrate:—
"You, Victoria, go back! There's William Gladstone trying to creep after us. Beatrice, Belinda, go home. You mustn't follow mother every time she turns her back! Go home, I tell you. Go—right—straight—back—home. My! but this is steep!"