“I think you might get my doll,” droned Priscilla again.
“I’ve been hunting for that bag so long this morning I’m tired clear through to my bones,” explained Polly at length, with a touch of reproach in her voice.
“Where do you s’pose it is?” asked Priscilla.
“I don’t know. Down the bank, maybe, and in the water. Theresa said it was. I went back to the place before breakfast and searched and searched.”
“Let’s lean over the edge of this and p’raps we can see it.”
“No, no,” protested Polly, quickly. “Don’t you! don’t you! Your mother ’spressly told us never to do that. She said you might fall over. She said I was never to leave you here alone—and that’s another reason why I can’t go get your doll.”
For answer Priscilla rose slowly and crossed the summer-house to the side that overhung the ravine. Very slowly and deliberately she mounted the bench, knelt up upon it and, leaning far over the ledge, peered into the dark depths of the ravine below.
Polly held her breath for a moment, too horrified to speak. Then she gasped out imploringly: “Don’t, don’t! Oh, Priscilla, don’t do so! Your mother told you not to. She said it was dangerous!”
For response Priscilla leaned out a little further.
Polly was speechless. She grasped the little girl’s dress and clutched it fiercely; it was all she could do.