She pulled Merrimeg along to the waterfall. “Stoop down,” she said, and pulled Merrimeg head-foremost into it. The water pounded on Merrimeg’s back, and she gasped for breath. The next moment she was through on the other side.
“Oh!” she cried. “I mustn’t! I must go back!”
“Please do come along with me,” said Myrma, and held her hand tight.
It was pitch dark. Merrimeg was rather frightened, but she was very curious too. She let herself be led onward, and in a few moments they began to go down hill. For a long, long time they walked down hill, in the pitch dark. The way became steeper and steeper. “I’m afraid,” whispered Merrimeg. “Why, it’s perfectly safe,” said Myrma. “I only hope nobody’ll come to the brook while I’m away.”
They were deep, deep down in the earth when they stopped. Myrma seemed to push against something, and in a moment a door opened, and she drew Merrimeg through.
On the other side—really, it didn’t seem possible there could be such a place, so deep underground. It was a long and beautiful valley, with a blue roof high overhead, exactly like the sky. A road ran down the valley between meadows all spangled with daisies and buttercups. The light that spread everywhere was the soft light of early morning. Here and there in the meadows were blossoming trees, a lovely mass of pink and white. The scent of honeysuckle came on the cool breeze.
“Isn’t it lovely!” said Merrimeg.
“Of course,” said Myrma. “It’s always lovely in springtime. I think he’ll be here in a minute.”
“Who?” said Merrimeg.
“Old Porringer. He runs the stage-coach. He ought to be here by this time—Here he comes!”