III

The first thing that struck Sara Lee was the way she was saying her nightly prayers in all sorts of odd places.  In trains and in hotels and, after sufficient interval, in the steamer.  She prayed under these novel circumstances to be made a better girl, and to do a lot of good over there, and to be forgiven for hurting Harvey.  She did this every night, and then got into her narrow bed and studied French nouns—­because she had decided that there was no time for verbs—­and numbers, which put her to sleep.

“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq,” Sara Lee would begin, and go on, rocking gently in her berth as the steamer rolled, “Vingt, vingt-et-un, vingt-deux, trente, trente—­et—­un—­” Her voice would die away.  The book on the floor and Harvey’s picture on the tiny table, Sara Lee would sleep.  And as the ship trembled the light over her head would shine on Harvey’s ring, and it glistened like a tear.

One thing surprised her as she gradually met some of her fellow passengers.  She was not alone on her errand.  Others there were on board, young and old women, and men, too, who had felt the call of mercy and were going, as ignorant as she, to help.  As ignorant, but not so friendless.  Most of them were accredited somewhere.  They had definite objectives.  But what was more alarming—­they talked in big figures.  Great organizations were behind them.  She heard of the rehabilitation of Belgium, and portable hospitals, and millions of dollars, and Red Cross trains.

Not once did Sara Lee hear of anything so humble as a soup kitchen.  The war was a vast thing, they would observe.  It could only be touched by great organizations.  Individual effort was negligible.

Once she took her courage in her hands.

“But I should think,” she said, “that even great organizations depend on the—­on individual efforts.”

The portable hospital woman turned to her patronizingly.

“Certainly, my dear,” she said.  “But coordinated—­coordinated.”

It is hard to say just when the lights went down on Sara Lee’s quiet stage and the interlude began.  Not on the steamer, for after three days of discouragement and good weather they struck a storm; and Sara Lee’s fine frenzy died for a time, of nausea.  She did not appear again until the boat entered the Mersey, a pale and shaken angel of mercy, not at all sure of her wings, and most terribly homesick.

That night Sara Lee made a friend, one that Harvey would have approved of, an elderly Englishman named Travers.  He was standing by the rail in the rain looking out at the blinking signal lights on both sides of the river.  The ship for the first time had abandoned its policy of darkness and the decks were bathed in light.

Overhead the yardarm blinkers were signaling, and directly over Sara Lee’s head a great white searchlight swept the water ahead.  The wind was blowing a gale, and the red and green lights of the pilot boat swung in great arcs that seemed to touch the waves on either side.