She was standing at the west end of the quarry, looking along the edge of the precipice, on her left.
“I wonder,” she mused, “whether it would be feasible to reach the owls.”
Filled with this new ambition, she thought no more of the shortcomings of her father and step-mother.
“It would be possible, by keeping a cool head,” she said.
“I should like to see what an owl’s nest is like, and in that cave I can pay my Sunday devotions.”
The shelf was not broad enough to allow of any one walking on it unsupported, even with a cool head.
In places, indeed, it broadened, and there lay a cushion of grass, but immediately it narrowed to a mere indication. The distance was not great, from whence Arminell stood, to the cave, some twenty-five feet, and a slip would entail a fall into the water beneath.
As the girl stood considering the possibilities and the difficulties, she noticed that streamers of ivy hung over the edge from the surface of the soil. She could not reach these, however, from where she stood. Were she to lay hold of them, she might be able to sustain herself whilst stepping along the ledge, just as if she were supported by a pendent rope.
“I believe it is contrivable,” she said,“I see where the ivy springs at the root of an elder tree. I can find or cut a crooked stick, and thus draw the strands to me. How angry and indignant mamma would be, were she to see what I am about.”
She speedily discovered a suitable stick, and with its assistance drew the pendent branches towards her. Then, laying hold of them, she essayed an advance on the shelf. The ivy-ropes were tough, and tenacious in their rooting into the ground. She dragged at them, jerked them, and they did not yield. She grasped them in her left hand, and cautiously stepped forward.