an assent.
Personally he was more occupied with the departed glories of Paris
Plage than with a mere skin of roses and milk; at least the worthy man
may have deemed it desirable to appear so.

"Pauvre petite," went on the kindly matron, "but she looks tired . . .
so tired." She heaved a deep sigh. "Mais que voulez-vous? c'est la
guerre." She watched her offspring preparing to paddle, and once again
she sighed. There was no band, no amusement--"Mon Dieu! but it was
triste. This accursed war--would it never end?"

Margaret Trent's looks did not lie; she was tired. The rush of work
just lately had almost broken her physical endurance, and there seemed
but little chance of any slackening in the near future. She felt that
all she wanted was rest--utter, complete rest, where such things as
bandages and iodine were unknown. And even as the longing came to her
she knew that a week of it would be all that she could stand. She
could see beyond the craving ache to stop--the well-nigh irresistible
cry of her body for rest. She could feel the call of spirit dominating
mere bodily weariness. And it drove her on--though every muscle cried
a halt.

Before the war she had been in that set which drifted pleasantly
through life, and yet she had not been of it. She danced perfectly;
she played tennis and golf and went to the proper places at the proper
times--but she was different. She had in her a certain idealistic
dreaminess, an intense love of the beautiful in life. Sordid things
filled her with a kind of horror, and when the war came she tried to
banish it from her mind like a dreadful nightmare. But there were
stories in the papers, and there were letters from friends telling of
losses and unspeakable sufferings. There was war all round her and one
day the great unrest got hold of her, and would not be put aside. She
felt she had to do something . . .

And so she became a V.A.D. and in the fulness of time arrived in
France. Her friends prophesied that she would last a month--that she
would never stand the sight of blood and wounds. Her answer had been
two years at Etaples. And to those who know, that is an answer
conducive of many things.

At times she tried to recall her outlook on life four years ago. She
had enjoyed herself up to a point, but all the time she had been
groping towards something she did not possess. She had read carefully
and with discrimination, and the reading had only filled her with