surprise. It will keep."

Scotch subsided into a rich silence. She somehow never quite got into
the conversation, though she was always in the action. She was one of
those silent, comfortable persons, without whom no group is complete.
Into her ample placidity fell the high-pitched clamor of noisier people,
like pebbles into a mountain lake.

"Now, what do you women think you are doing?" persisted the
correspondent. "Why are you here?"

"You really want to know?" queried Hilda.

"I really want to know," he repeated.

"I'll answer you to-morrow," said Hilda. "Come out here to-morrow
afternoon and we'll go to Nieuport. We promised to go over and visit
the dressing-station there, and on the way I'll tell you why we are
here."

* * * * *

Next day was grey and chilly. A low rumble came out of the north. The
women had a busy morning, for the night had been full of snipers perched
on trees. The faithful three spread aseptics and bandaged and sewed, and
generally cheered the stream of callers from the Ninth and Twelfth
Regiments, Army of the King of the Belgians. In the early afternoon, the
buzz of motors penetrated to the stuffy cellar, and it needed no yelping
horn, squeezed by the firm hand of Smith, to bring Hilda to the surface,
alert for the expedition. Two motor ambulances were puffing their lungs
out, in the roadway. Pale-faced Smith sat in one at the
steering-gear--Smith, the slight London boy who would drive a car
anywhere. Beside him sat F. Ainslie-Barkleigh, bent over upon his war
map, studying the afternoon's campaign. In the second ambulance were
Tom, the Cockney driver, and the leader of the Ambulance Corps, Dr. Neil
McDonnell.

"Jump in," called he, "we're off for Nieuport."

She jumped into the first ambulance, and they turned to the north and
took the straight road that leads all the way from Dixmude to the sea.
Barkleigh was much too busy with his glasses and his map to give her any
of his attention for the first quarter hour. They speeded by sentinel
after sentinel, who smiled and murmured, "Les Anglais." Corporals,
captains, commandants, gazed in amazement and awe at the massive figure
of the war-correspondent, as he challenged the horizon with his
binoculars and then dipped to his map for consultation. Only once did
the party have to yield up the pass-word, which for that afternoon was
"Charleroi." Finally Barkleigh turned to the girl.

"We had a discussion last