he long line of ambulances, the ghastly procession that
trailed behind.

And all through the night Drusilla sang to men who rested for a moment
on their weary way, out of the shadows came eager voices asking for
this song and that--then they would pass on, and she would throw
herself down for a little sleep, to rouse again and lift her voice,
while the other women poured the coffee.

She was hoarse in the morning, and white with fatigue, but when one of
the women said, "You can't keep this up, Drusilla, you can't stand it,"
she smiled. "They stand it is the trenches, and some of them are so
tired."

She was as fresh as paint, however, on Saturday, when she met Dr.
McKenzie in Paris. "I have had two hot baths, and all my clothes are
starched and ironed and fluted by an adorable Frenchwoman who opened
her house for me," she announced as she sat down with him at a corner
table. "I never wore fluted things before, but you can't imagine how
civilizing it is after you've been letting yourself down."

The Doctor was tired, and he looked it. "No one has starched and
fluted me."

"Poor man. I'm glad you ran away from it all for a minute with me.
Captain Hewes thought he might be able to come. But I haven't heard
from him, have you?"

"No. But he may blow in at any moment. It seems queer, doesn't it,
Drusilla, that you and I should be over here with all the rest of them
left behind."

She hesitated, then brought it out without prelude. "Hilda came to see
me."

"To see you? Why?"

"She is broken-hearted because you won't let her work with you."

"I told her I could not. And she hasn't any heart to break."

"I wonder if you'd mind," Drusilla ventured, "telling me what's the
matter."

"A rather squalid story," but he told it. "She wanted to marry the
General."

"Poor thing."

He glanced at her in surprise. "Then you defend her?"

"Oh, no--no. But think of having to marry to get the--the fleshpots,
and to miss all of the real meanings. I talked to Hilda for a long
time, and somehow before she left she made me feel sorry. She wants so
much that she will never have. And she will grow hard and bitter
because life isn't giving her all that she demands."

"Did she ask you to plead her cause?"

"Yes," frankly. "She feels that you ought to give her another chance."

He ran his fingers through his crinkled hair. "I don't want her. I'm
afraid of her."

"Afraid?"

"She sees the worst that is in