of mankind would have declared her to be an unusually pretty
woman. She wore the large gray cloak that covered her from head
to foot with a grace that lent its own attractions to a plain and
even a shabby article of dress. The languor in her movements, and
the uncertainty of tone in her voice as she thanked the surgeon
suggested that she was suffering from fatigue. Her dark eyes
searched the dimly-lighted room timidly, and she held fast by the
nurse's arm with the air of a woman whose nerves had been
severely shaken by some recent alarm.

"You have one thing to remember, ladies," said the surgeon.
"Beware of opening the shutter, for fear of the light being seen
through the window. For the rest, we are free to make ourselves
as comfortable here as we can. Compose yourself, dear madam, and
rely on the protection of a Frenchman who is devoted to you!" He
gallantly emphasized his last words by raising the hand of the
English lady to his lips. At the moment when he kissed it the
canvas screen was again drawn aside. A person in the service of
the ambulance appeared, announcing that a bandage had slipped,
and that one of the wounded men was to all appearance bleeding to
death. The surgeon, submitting to destiny with the worst possible
grace, dropped the charming Englishwoman's hand, and returned to
his duties in the kitchen. The two ladies were left together in
the room.

"Will you take a chair, madam?" asked the nurse.

"Don't call
me 'madam,'" returned the young lady, cordially. "My name is
Grace Roseberry. What is your name?"