Now that the April sun had slid down behind the rocky ridges, it was cold in the valley. Cherry hurried along, hoping Bertha would have set a match to the blazing logs in the fireplace of their small room behind the makeshift clinic.

Cherry was as tired as she had ever been in her whole nursing career, but she knew that plump Bertha Larsen, who had been hobbling around on crutches all day, would be even more exhausted. Cherry glanced up at the sunset, veiled by the mist that hung above the thickly wooded mountain. Lonely little cabins perched precariously on the lower slopes of it; gray unpainted barns dotted the hillsides. Between the pastures and the farm lands narrow dirt lanes spiraled, following the path of mountain streams.

In the growing twilight, Cherry felt hemmed in by the dark-green palisades. There was something almost sinister about the shadows that lay across the valley floor. Desolate Mountain had certainly been well named. Cherry felt sure that there could not be another village in the whole state of Kentucky as isolated as Heartbreak Hollow.

But in spite of the fact that the people were poor and, for the most part, ignorant, it was a happy place. Daniel Boone, it was said, had given the village its name, because, after an attack by the Indians, only two of the original frontier families had survived. Later, other pioneers had come to build their log cabins and to struggle for existence side by side with the Smiths and the Clarkes. They brought with them the customs, idioms, and traditions of their English, Scottish, and Irish ancestors, and even now the older members of the community were reluctant to relinquish them.

The children, in spite of their sporadic schooling, were slowly but surely freeing themselves of the idioms and superstitions. In general, the fathers although they kept saying they didn’t want to be “beholden” to the doctor and nurse, were much more modern-minded than the mothers. But the grandparents were not of the twentieth century and didn’t want to be.

The big silver-gray bus stopped at the junction just long enough for Cherry to jump off and reach up for the bags which the driver handed down to her. Then with a derisive blast of its horn it sped away as though it wished to shake off the dust of this desolate countryside.

“Weatherly,” Cherry though, “must be the tiniest village in the while U.S. A. And yet it’s only four hours from New York City, and once was a prosperous mining town.”

The only buildings still standing was the abandoned railroad station which consisted of a baggage platform precariously attached to an unpainted shack that looked as though it were going to collapse any minute from sheer boredom. A dirt road stretched away from the junction to lose itself in far-off scrubby hills. Cherry knew that on one of those hills was a hospital. Somebody on the staff should be driving down the road now to meet the new night supervisor.

Night supervisor! Cherry could hardly believe that this evening she would actually be on duty in that coveted role. The opportunity had been offered to her by Dr. Van Laughton, Chief of the Pediatric Service of Spencer Hospital where Cherry had trained. Last fall she had gone back for duty in the new Children’s Wing. At Dr. Laughton’s suggestion she had continued her postgraduate training, working as assistant to the Superintendent of Nurses in order to fit herself for a supervisory position at Weatherly Hospital.

“It’s one of the oldest institutions in the country,” Dr. Laughton had told Cherry. “The main section, which is in an old frame building, was built way back when surgery was in its infancy and asepsis was unheard of. But don’t let that worry you. The new wings are as modern as anything here at Spencer, and what is more important, they’ve got Bates Darby on staff. How they wangled it, I’ll never know. But he’s there, and since most babies are born at night or in the early morning, you’ll be working closely with one of the leading obstetricians in North America. At the end of this assignment, which will probably amount to a post-graduate course in midwifery, you can classify yourself as an obstetrical nurse.”

It was Dr. Joe Fortune who had give Cherry a more complete picture of what her new job would be like. Dr. Joe, who lived near Cherry’s home in Hilton, Illinois, had brought her and her twin brother, Charlie, into the world. He had inspired her to take up nursing and she had never regretted her decision. Through her work she had made many warm friends who had shared exciting adventures with her and had helped her solve some really baffling mysteries.

Cherry took a deep breath as the taxi started up the hill. Now she and Josie could see Spencer Hospital, a huge cluster of white buildings on top of the hill. Spencer was really a city in itself with its trim yards, broad avenues, landscaped lawns, and well-kept tennis courts. And to Cherry, in her probationer days, it had seemed like a terrifying labyrinth. But now the very sight of it rapidly drawing nearer filled her with the memories of the three thrilling years she had spent there with her friends who had trained and worked with her until graduation.

Cherry closed her dark eyes, remembering that first week when she, an awe-struck “probie,” had met the classmates who were to share so many exciting experiences with her. She could see them now in their humble gray probationers’ dresses which they, as student nurses, discarded for blue and white uniforms, white stockings, and broad black velvet bands on the cuff of their caps. They had herded together as probies, and they had kept in touch with one another ever since.

There had been red-haired, full-of-fun, Gwen Jones; earnest, rather rabbity-looking, but really very efficient, Josie Franklin; plump Bertha Larsen; hazel-eyed Vivian Warren; Mai Lee, the lovely Chinese-American girl; and Ann Evans, now Mrs. Jack Powell. Later, as visiting nurses, they had all, except Ann, shared an apartment in New York’s Greenwich Village, No. 9, the headquarters of the Spencer Club.

Cherry opened one dark-brown eye and closed it again quickly. Shivering, she pulled the covers up until her black curls were hidden beneath the thick, crazy-quilt comforter.

It was a hot afternoon at the end of August. The whole Midwest town of Hilton looked wilted. Even this tree-shaded block, and the Ameses’ big, gray frame house and lawn, wore a dusty, tail-end-of summer look. Cherry, sitting forlorn on the porch steps, debated whether the long summer ever would be over.

“Of course, summer is my favorite season,” she argued to herself. “But I’ve had enough of doing nothing. What I want is a new fall hat and new, exciting things to do!” She wrinkled her nose as if trying to detect any first autumn briskness in the air.

The hot breeze carried to her only the scent of over-ripe greenery. Cherry sighed and pushed her black curls off her forehead, off the back of her too-warm neck. She fanned her red cheeks, muttering, “Where, on, where is that mailman?”