“Oh!” Cherry laughed. “It was the night our ship was attacked. We had been fired upon, the ship was sinking. Boats were being swamped by the waves. But through it all we must keep the children calm and in line. There’s nothing like singing in a time like that. I thought of a song, a silly, terrible, glorious song. Its words were on my lips. I opened my mouth. The words came out, “Roll out the Barrel.” ‘And we’ll all have fun. When we roll out the barrel.’ “The children sang. We all sang. We all remained calm. And we got away. “Some of us got away,” she added soberly. “But my voice, that was a miracle, I guess. God knew I needed it so very, very badly for that trying hour.” A week later Cherry sat in a great easy chair before a broad window. She was looking out upon a scene of matchless beauty, the broad lawn to Dave’s big old-fashioned, New England home in winter. The first snow. They had decided upon this spot because there, of all places, they could really find rest and peace. As if dressed for a party, the hedge and great evergreen trees were decked with white. “It is beautiful! Glorious!” She murmured. “And yet—” Beside her on a small table lay a letter just finished. She had written to her mother. Among other things she had said, “Mother, don’t be troubled. We are going to win the war. We are not alone. More and more, everywhere I go in America I am told that people are coming to feel stronger about this war. They will send us guns, ships and planes. We shall win. We are not alone.” For some time she sat there quite alone looking away at the winter landscape. Their journey to America had been a glorious adventure. They were being royally entertained. Just now Alice was in the kitchen with the children popping corn. Brand, the young Lord and the Lark had gone hunting. Yes, they were having a grand time. But her thoughts were far away. Only that morning she had received a letter from her mother. It was full of news. A flying repair squad had put their house back, good as new. “We now have a home again,” was the word. “How good that seems! They are asking for you at the subway. All England calls for their Singing Angel.” “All England,” she whispered softly. Slipping in from another room, Dave took a seat beside her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He spread his arms to include all out-of-doors. “Yes,” she agreed. “So beautiful it makes your heart ache. But, Dave, I’m eager to be back in England. I—I just can’t stand the silence. There’s no excitement, no great cause. It—it’s strange. War is terrible! But when you belong in it you want to be there. You just ache to be there. It—it is very strange.” “You’ll be on your way in a week. Your subway crowd will be waiting for you. But a week, that’s soon enough,” he insisted. “And you?” Her voice was low. “I?” He looked into her eyes. “What do you think?” “I have no way to know.”