“I’ll have a car for you at once,” said the kindly gray-haired uncle. “Dave, my boy, London’s no place for a girl who has gone through what this girl has tonight.”
All the way home Dave had an arm about Cherry. She cuddled close to him, as a scared child would and they were not ashamed.
Arrived at the farm, they quietly dismissed the driver. Arousing no one, they sat before the half-burned-out kitchen fire for a time. When at last Dave felt the trembling quiver of her shoulders pass away, he said huskily:
“You’d better turn in for a little sleep.”
“Dave,” she whispered. “My voice is gone. I can’t sing any more.”
“Fright. That’s all.” Dave tried to reassure her. “It will come back.”
Would it? He wondered as he watched her make her way slowly, dreamily, like a sleep-walker, up the stairs.
Chapter XIII
Lull Before the Storm
Until one P. M. the next day Cherry was lost to the world. At last she stirred beneath her rare old English blankets, opened her eyes, stared about her, tried to remember, then began trying to forget.
In slippers and bathrobe she crept down to the kitchen where the cook served her with very strong tea and a small, delicious meat pie. After that she curled up in the big chair before the fire and once again fell asleep.