"Well, this is one of the fields of Coppin's Farm, just outside Lexden Park."
"Do you know Melbourne House?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. Miss Morgan's. She's dead," replied the girl's voice from above. "It's out on the high road—close by."
"Is this well in the middle of a field, then?" I asked.
"In the corner. Some old, half-ruined cottages stood here till a couple of years ago, when they were pulled down."
"And this was the well belonging to them?"
"I suppose so," she replied, and a few minutes later I heard voices and saw several heads peering down at me, while now and then gravel fell upon my unprotected head, causing me to put my hands up to protect it.
"I say!" cried the man's voice who had first addressed me, "We're sending down a rope. Can you fasten it round you, and then we'll haul you up? I expect you're in a pretty state, aren't you?"
"Yes; I'm not very presentable, I fear," I laughed.
Then down came a stout farmer's rope, several lengths of which were knotted together after some delay, until its end dangled before me.