As she did so, she became conscious of a beam that lay directly before her. This beam, which ran the length of the barn, was suspended by iron bars at a distance of two feet from the peak. It formed a track along which, in haying time, a car carried great bundles of loose hay to all parts of the loft.
As she looked she saw that stray moonbeams lighted this track at regular intervals.
“Cupolas,” she told herself.
She had noted that curious little structures, perfect little barns, some four feet square and six feet high, had been placed along the ridge of the barn. These were in truth cupolas. Their sides were made of slanting slats. These let in air, and kept out rain. They were for the purpose of ventilation. New made hay needs air.
She studied this beam with dawning hope.
“If I could climb out over that beam,” she told herself, “I could swing up into the first cupola. I might then be able to reach the roof and at last the ground.”
It was uncertain, but worth the risk.
Gripping the beam with both her strong hands, she let go her feet and, swinging in midair, made her way hand over hand along the beam until she was beneath the cupola.
Now for swinging up. This seemed easy. It was difficult. Was it impossible? Twice she swung her legs up. Twice she failed.
Her arms were tiring. If she failed again could she make her way back to the ladder? She doubted it. And to fall!