ought it was an 'M.'"

He laughed guiltily. The laugh shook you. You saw all that he could
never see: inside the room the great ladies and latest American
countesses, eager to help, forgetful of self, full of wonderful, womanly
sympathy; and outside, the Place de la Concorde, the gardens of the
Tuileries, the trees of the Champs-Elysees, the sun setting behind the
gilded dome of the Invalides. All these were lost to him, and yet as
he sat in the darkness, because he could not tell an N from an M, he
laughed, and laughed happily. From where did he draw his strength and
courage? Was it the instinct for life that makes a drowning man fight
against an ocean? Was it his training as an officer of the Grande Armee?
Was it that spirit of the French that is the one thing no German knows,
and no German can ever break? Or was it the sound of a woman's voice and
the touch of a woman's hand? If the reader wants to contribute something
to help teach a new profession to these gentlemen, who in the fight for
civilization have contributed their eyesight, write to the secretary of
the committee, Mrs. Peter Cooper Hewitt, Hotel Ritz, Paris.

[Illustration: A poster advertising the fund to bring from the trenches
"permissionaires," those soldiers who obtain permission to return home
for six days.]

There are some other very good bargains. Are you a lover of art, and
would you become a patron of art? If that is your wish, you can buy an
original water-color for fifty cents, and so help an art student who is
fighting at the front, and assist in keeping alive his family in Paris.
Is not that a good bargain?

As everybody knows, the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris is free to
students from all the world. It is the alma mater of some of the
best-known American artists and architects. On its rolls are the names
of Sargent, St. Gaudens, Stanford White, Whitney Warren, Beckwith,
Coffin, MacMonnies.

Certain schools and colleges are so fortunate as to inspire great
devotion on the part of their students, as, in the story told of every
college, of the student being led from the football field, who struggles
in front of the grand stand and shouts: "Let me go back. I'd die for
dear old ----"

But the affection of the students of the Beaux-Arts for their masters,
their fellow students and the institution is very genuine.

They do not speak of the distinguished artists, architects, engravers,
and sculptors who instruct them as "Doc," or "Prof."