lashed up by the latest seething storm of horror and destruction out there on the front. In the dimmed rays of the carefully hooded light at the entrance, the girl chauffeur in khaki deftly swings into place the great vehicle with her load of human freight. A nurse in a flowing headdress, ghostly white against the night, alights from the rear step. The wreckage inside of what has been four men, now dead, dying or maimed, is passed out. Groans and sharp cries of pain mingle with the rasping of the motor as the ambulance rolls on to make way for another.
The last drive in the trenches has been perhaps a particularly terrible one. All night like this, every night for a week, for two weeks, the rush for human repairs may go on. Men broken on the gigantic wheel of fate to which the world is lashed to-day will be brought in like this, battalion after battalion to be mended by women's hands. The appalling distress of a world in agony has requisitioned any hands that know how, all hands with the skill to bind up a wound.
It is very plain. You cannot stand like this in a woman staffed hospital in the war zone without catching a vision of the great moving picture spectacle that here flashes through the smoke of battle. Hush! From man's extremity, it is, that the Great Director of all is himself staging woman's opportunity.
The heights toward which the woman movement of yesterday struggled in vain are taken at last. The battle has been won over there in Europe. Be-
