“But, my dear,” his voice dropped, “that is all in your mind. Your body has other things to say. It is truly afraid, and you can do nothing about it. “In such a case your body breaks down at its weakest point. In your case it is your voice. I have a patient who buys old stamps. He’s forever peering through a glass, examining stamps, using his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of bombs. But his body was. He went totally blind. Since he was an American, I packed him into the Clipper and sent him home. And now,” the doctor spread his arms wide, “he’s quite all right again.” “But doctor, what am I to do?” There was agony in Cherry’s whisper. “Go to America. Two weeks there and you will be well. Then come back and take up your work once more. It’s your only chance. Is it worth the trouble?” “But I can’t. I—” “Yes, you can.” Mrs. Ramsey was on her feet. “I have it. The very thing! The boat sails next Monday.” “The boat? What boat, mother?” Cherry stared. “They have chartered a boat to carry refugee children to America. I was discussing the sending of Peggy and Tillie this very morning. The welfare workers wish to send a grown person with each group of ten children to look after them, direct their play, keep them cheerful and happy. Cherry, you shall be one of these. I shall see to it at once.” “But mother!” Cherry’s whisper was pathetic. “It’s so sudden. I must have time to think.” “Very well,” said her mother, dismissing the whole affair for a moment by a wave of her hand. “Think as much as you please until this time tomorrow.” And so now Cherry, as she walked slowly toward the village, was thinking hard. Could she do it? Leave Alice, Brand, and Dave, all her friends to embark on this strange adventure? She had a horror of the sea, yet, if she went she must be cheerful all the way. “It’s the war,” she was thinking. “When there is a war we have no choice. Duty calls. We must go.” Rounding a curve, a young cyclist came rushing toward her. He slowed up when he was near. It was Brand. There was a look on his face she had seldom seen there before. “Going home?” she asked simply. “No. Just for a ride.” A question was on her lips. She did not ask it. There are times when we do not ask questions of those we love. “I’m going to the village,” she said simply. “Perhaps I’ll meet you on the way back.” “Perhaps.” Again he was on his wheel and away. “Riding something down,” she told herself. “Something rather terrible.” Then, as if a chill blast had swept in from the hills, she shuddered. At the village she came upon more tragedy. Where the shop of Old John, the shoemaker, had stood was a pit of darkness. On a stake stuck in the ground someone had hung a bit of black crepe. This was enough. Turning she walked straight toward home. Her courage was now at the sticking point. She would go on that ship with the children. It was the only thing she could do to help. And everyone must do something.