She was dreaming of quiet, sleepy hours, with Flash at her side, while her sheep wandered over the hillside at Ramsey Farm, when suddenly it seemed that a mighty thunderstorm had stolen upon her unawares and that the very hill was being rocked by its roaring. She awoke standing in the center of the room. Her knees trembled so she could scarcely stand. The floor beneath her vibrated like a ship in a storm. From all about her came strange crashes like walls falling one upon another. She tried to call, but could only whisper. A narrow crack of light appeared before her. A board in the door had been split. She stepped to the door and opened it. Then, catching herself, she started back to whisper in dismay: “It’s gone! The house is gone! Only my room is here!” That was not quite true. Of that spacious home only three rooms remained—her own and two others. A half-ton bomb had scattered the rest. Recalling that the French windows of her room opened out on a court, she sprang to the nearest one. Then she was out and away. A weird light from a flare sent down by the enemy illuminated the street. Once on that street she began to run. In all her fright and confusion she had a vague plan. Dave was spending the night with his uncle. She knew the address. Was it far? She did not know. All she knew was that somehow she must get there. She had gone but a block when she ran squarely into the arms of a six-foot policeman. “Here now, Miss! What’s this?” His voice had a kindly rumble. “The house!” she cried. “Lady Perkins’ house! It’s gone!” “Yes,” he agreed. “It was a terrible bomb. The firemen are just there now. Thank God Lady Perkins and all were away.” “No!” Cherry whispered. “I was there.” “You?” The Bobby looked her over. “You were there? And who now might you be?” “I—I’m Cherry.” “What? The Singin’ Angel?” He looked her in the face. “Bless me heart it is now! What do you know about that! Bless the Lord you are safe.” “I can’t talk.” The girl’s head drooped. “I can’t sing. I—I want to go to Dave’s Uncle’s place.” In her fright she was like a child. “And where would that be?” She gave him the address. He read it, then blew a whistle. A man appeared. “Jim,” he said, “this is Cherry, the Singin’ Angel. God’s own child she is.” “The Singin’ Angel!” Jim’s jaw dropped. “None other,” said the Bobby. “An’ you’re to take her to this address. Mind you drive careful, careful and steady as ye would if it were the Christ Child you’re ’avin in yer car.” Jim’s car was old and dilapidated, but to Cherry it was the latest model of a Rolls Royce and its cushions as soft as down, for was it not taking her to her friends? Arrived at the house, in the presence of Dave’s tall, gray-haired uncle, she disgraced herself by throwing herself in Dave’s arms. Then she wept like a child.