The bank, however, was not wholly bare. There were some
thin gnarled oaks upon it, which might stop him.
"Catch hold of the trees, Bobby!" she shouted to him, in an agony.
The child heard, turned a white face to her, and tried to obey. He was
already a stalwart little mountaineer, accustomed to trot over the fells
after his father's sheep, and the physical instinct in his, sturdy limbs
saved him. He caught a jutting root, held on, and gradually dragged
himself up to the cushion of moss from which the tree grew, sitting
astride the root, and clasping the tree with both arms. The position was
still extremely dangerous, but for the moment he was saved.
"All right, Bobby--clever boy! Hold tight--I'm coming!"
And she rushed towards a little bridge at the head of the ravine. But
before she could reach it, she saw the lad's father, cautiously
descending the bank, helped by a rope tied to an oak tree at the top. He
reached the child, tied the rope to the stem of the tree where the little
fellow was sitting, and then with the boy under one arm and hauling on
the rope with the other hand, he made his way up the few perilous yards
that divided them from safety.
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