also ambulance drivers, had received the Croix de Guerre, or War Cross, which the Médicin Divisionnaire had himself pinned to their breasts.

During the last few years the art student had roughed it as few young men of his culture and education are called upon to do. But no amount of hard knocks could have taken away from Dunstan a certain air of refinement and a suavity of speech and manner which stamped him as an aristocrat. It was not, however, that form of aristocracy which sometimes instinctively arouses a feeling of antagonism or dislike.

The ambulance unit was installed in the abandoned Hotel de la Palette, a one-time favorite rendezvous for artists, situated several kilometers behind the lines.

During various bombardments of the village so much damage had been caused that it was now scarcely more than a mass of débris—an inhospitable waste, with but few of its inhabitants remaining, and the hotel had also suffered considerably. The ambulanciers, however, set to work, and by a judicious use of materials succeeded in making it fairly water-tight and comfortable. Formerly they had slept on straw spread around the sides of a big barn; now real beds and real rooms were reminders of the comforts which each had left behind him.

The appearance of the Hotel de la Palette was quite suggestive of some old print, such as might be found hanging in the window of a second-hand book shop. It seemed to be something wholly apart from this modern era; an air of a century past hovered over its discolored walls and the dingy cobbled courtyard which they enclosed. Very tranquil and peaceful indeed it looked—just the sort of a place where one might expect to see a farmer's cart or a hay wagon drawn up before the door and peasants occasionally wandering in and out.

A wide, arching porte-cochère, battered and grimy, led into the courtyard, where some of the Red Cross cars were parked. And so the neighing of horses and the stamping of their iron-shod hoofs, as well as the shouts of hostlers, had long since ceased to be, and now the enclosure resounded and echoed to the blasts of the motorist's horn or to the fresh, clear voices of youthful Americans.

The cars which the courtyard could not accommodate stood in inconspicuous positions in side lanes or behind the houses. The section was composed of thirty men and twenty-two ambulances. Lieutenant Fourneaux, a French officer, had entire charge, but the actual commanders were two college men from the United States—Hugh Wendell, Chef, and Gideon Watts, Sous Chef. French army cooks 

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