“That’s all right,” was the prompt and generous response. Brand gave Dave’s knee a slap. “You’ll pick it up fast. That is,” he added, “if that Messerschmitt isn’t still carrying its bombs and if he doesn’t land one of them right on us.” “Why would he do that?” The American boy’s eyes opened wide. “Lighten his load. Besides, a bullet might strike a bomb. Then whew! He’d fly into a thousand pieces. He—” The English boy stopped suddenly, for at that instant there came a sput—sput—sput from the sky. “They’re at it!” Dave’s voice was low and tense. The burst of fire which was short and sharp had come from the Spitfire. “Short, broadside,” Brand explained. “You can’t do much with a broadside. Other plane’s going too fast. They’re out of range, just like that. They— “Look!” he exclaimed in a voice tense with emotion. “The Tomahawk is going after that plane from behind! He— “Nope.” He let loose a low hiss of disgust. “He’s gone into a power dive.” It was true. All the planes had been high, perhaps up 15,000 feet. Now the Messerschmitt slipped into a dive that took it half the distance to earth. The American boy was ready to dodge and run for it when just as suddenly as it had gone into the dive the Nazi plane came out of it to level off just above the farm home. “Look!” Brand gripped his companion’s arm hard. “He’s dropped a bomb!” Terror stricken, fascinated, white-hot with anger, the English boy watched a silver spot against the dark blue sky go down—down—down. And on the hillside, far above her home, tall, slender, beautiful twenty-year old Cherry Ramsey, with the color gone from her cheeks, also watched the terrifying missile speed from the sky. “Where will it strike?” Her alert mind registered the question her lips did not speak, while her eyes took in the house, the barn, the out-buildings, the orchard—every spot dear to her childhood. And then the silence of the countryside was torn by a sudden burst of sound that made the very hills tremble. For one full moment while the trio on the hillside kept their places, breathless, expectant, a cloud of dust and smoke obscured the view. During this moment Cherry became conscious of the dog that lay whining at her feet. Bending low, she patted his sleek head. “Yes, I know it’s terrible,” she soothed. “You don’t like it. We don’t either. But we all must endure it for England’s sake.” As if he understood, the dog nestled silently at her feet. The smoke cleared. The girl sighed with relief. The bomb had fallen in the orchard. A single apple tree, one of the early pippins, had been uprooted. A slight loss. The tree was quite old. And then with a shock it came to her that everything—the house, the barn, the dovecotes,—all about the place was old, old and very dear.