to the convulsions of the muscular tissues of dead frogs when in contact with an acid. Ivan the Terrible had the will to kill his son, but he fell prostrated immediately thereafter in a fit of cowardice. Pugatcheff, an illiterate convict, having declared himself to be the resurrected Czar Peter III, raised the entire country from the Ural to Saratoff, dispossessed and killed off the nobility, smashed one army after another, forced the terrified government of Catharine II to conclude a hasty peace with all foreign foes. But when

he was caught, Pugatcheff cried bitterly and repented. It was proved that he was a tool of a gang of thieves and cutthroats, that he was devoid of any personal initiative, of will, of action, and that he was a victim, and not the creator, of circumstances which attended his bloody ad

ventures.

There was one man in Russia with a will of his own. It was Peter the Great, though the most brilliant biographer of that ruler, Merejkowsky, denies it. But the very material used by that historian to prove Peter's diseased will shows the contrary. The man who killed off Russian barbarism through his own barbarity as he did could not be a man of a weak or diseased will.

But the very achievements of Peter the Great prove our theory better than any and all other facts mentioned before. When Peter set out with his program of reforms, which historians do not call revolution, because they were called forth by royalty, to a man the whole country rose against him.

The nobility stood against him because he was against them. The officialdom, the bureaucracy, whatever there was of it at that time, came out against him. The powerful Russian Church accursed him as

the Anti-Christ, and the whole nation, led by the nobility and the church, believed it. There was not one class, caste, element, nay, there was not one Russian, that did not hate him, wishing his destruction. His own wife was against him. His sisters tried to organize a revolt, and his own son and heir to the throne, the gentle Alexis, believing, like all the people, that his father was doing the work of Satan, entered into a conspiracy to destroy him.

Yet in face of this general hatred and resistance, Peter took history by the throat, turned the country upside down from the Caucasian Mountains to the shores of Nova and from the Black Sea to Kamchatka, because there was not another Russian with a will strong enough to meet the will of the czar and combat him, although he stood alone, isolated, and accursed.

When this war is over, and a critical analysis is made of the military operations of the Russians on their several fronts, and particularly of those stages of the war when the Russians had reached the plains of Hungary and were almost within cannonshot of Königsberg, the things which are to-day considered by the world as the most stupendous military blunders will turn out in reality to be nothing more or less than an illustration of the tragic will of the nation.

Designedly, we characterize the failing will power of the Russian as a "diseased will." It is because the general conception of a weak will will not interpret Russia as fully as what appears to be a diseased will of the race. Psychology has not yet given us a clear distinction between these two forms of the abnormal will power; still, there can be no question that things happened and are happening in Russia that would be utterly impossible upon the theory of a weak will, but are perfectly consistent with a diseased will.

N the Little Gray Home I was marooned. I tried to rent a pony and cart; then I let it be known among the peasants that I was in the market for the purchase of a horse. Military people, congressmen on joy rides, and endless bands of folks inspecting seem to be the only ones that move about quickly and easily.

In what category am I? Convoys do not always have provisions. To be able to offer a good meal at any time means giving aid and comfort to the soldier. Food I must have, and there is only one way to get it-buy it from Uncle Sam. The colonel says he is going to make me a mess sergeant. Until rations are sent to me I must forage. Yes, I am military.

When the meat-truck from the hospital passed, I hailed the driver.

"Coming along with you, Tony, this morning," said I, climbing up to the seat and sitting down beside him.

"Sure you are!" Tony profited by the stop to light a cigarette. "Off for the Holy City," he said, putting his overcoat on my lap. "That 's the nearest we 'll get to home for God knows when."

As we bumped over a grade crossing, an M. P. stepped out. Holding up his stick, he shouted:

"Girls ain't allowed to ride on motortrucks!"

The M. P. put his stick back of him. He backed.

"Y-Y-yes, ma'am," said he.

Since then no M. P. has stopped me. Word has gone up and down the line, "Better not touch that woman; she 's loaded."

We were approaching the Holy City. "I'm proud to be an American when I look at the work our men have done here. I have been doing this route for a year now. Every time I go through this town it looks more like Jersey City."

"It did n't look like Jersey City when the first Americans landed, Tony. That was the month before you came over. The censorship thought the great event could be concealed. No mention in the newspapers of this or any other port. But we all knew about it beforehand, concierge as soon as cabinet minister. Of course I jumped on a train with my husband, and we came to greet the boys. Dear me! how homesick that first bunch was inside of twenty-four hours! The Holy City was n't any holier then than it is now, but it was very strange and foreign. Those two adjectives, you know, are the same in French. The end of June, 1917-scarcely a year ago! And to follow this long road for miles to-day, flanked on each side with American camps and depots and endless railroad tracks, where there were only cattails last year, to see these ships with the American flag,-more American ships than I 've seen together at one time in all my life before, and I know East and North rivers well,—it makes me feel that Aladdin's lamp has been rubbed. Aladdin's lamp has been rubbed by Uncle

Sam, and if he 's done all this, it's because not one genius appeared, but millions. You fellows are the genii, Tony."

"I don't know what that may be, Mrs. Gibbons, but we 're it all right if you say so."

A motor-car passed us quickly in the other direction. Shouts. Arms waving. "Again?" said Tony, dejected. "They 're stopping."

A long-legged fellow with a black mustache was running back toward us.

"They want us," said Tony. "It's a captain. You ought to get the chief M. P. to make you out a pass and stamp it proper'."

"Here you are," said the captain. "I 've been looking all over France for you. Did you ever get letters from me?"

"I certainly did, Whit, and answered them, too."

"What are you doing here, Helen?"
"Spending the summer."
"Far from here?"

"Not very. Just came from there this morning. How long have we been, Tony?"

"An hour," said Tony.

"An hour by motor-truck," said Whit. "I can make it in half an hour. I'll come up to see you Sunday if you 'll be there."

"Come for the week-end, Whit," said I, "and make friends with my children."

"I'll do that if you don't make them call me uncle, and if you let me bring Johnny along.'

"Wait," said Whit. "Why don't you lunch with me to-day? Meet me at Marie's restaurant at twelve-thirty. I'll arrange my work so we can show you the shops this afternoon."

"Shops? What kind of shops?" "Railroad shops, of course," said he. "Of course," I answered. "Whitfield, you are one of the few people I know that knew what they were going to be from the beginning. You have stuck to your choochoo cars since you wore knee-caps and hated to get your ears washed."

"Ain't it funny," said Tony, when we started on, "how we find old friends over here? I'm doin' that all the time."

"Yes, Tony," I answered. "I've called that captain's mother Aunt Louise ever since I can remember."

"You sure must go with him to see the shops. I got an early start this morning. I'll wait at the commissary till you buy your stuff, and I can take it out and leave it at the Little Gray Home as easy as not. And it 'll save you the trouble."

"All right, Tony," I answered. "I do hope the captain has his children's pictures in his pocket. I've never seen them."

At luncheon in the restaurant, at the table next to ours, were two ensigns and three second lieutenants. The restaurant girl said:

"Quel vin désirez-vous, blanc Ou rouge?"

"Pas de vin."

Marie brought carafes of water and,

"Johnny is a pal of mine, prince of a fellow, if he did go to Princeton. You'll like Johnny."

"I certainly shall; but I am surprised at you, fifteen years out of Yale! You're still the kid I used to know-with that Princeton stuff."

"Strange, is n't it, that I should have said that? But over here we older fellows, living with the youngsters, get right back where we were in 1900."

"Come, Tony," I said; "the waitingline at the commissary will be getting too long."

said:

"Du vin americain, alors!"

Before the American invasion, if people lunching there had refused to buy wine, Marie would have been mystified or angry. Now she receives with equanimity the "pas de vin."

When Whitfield paid for the lunch, he gave Marie a hundred-franc note. While we were waiting for the change, he said:

"My hundred-franc notes are not money to me; they look more like bills of lading." "Choo-choo cars again."

When the captain's motor drew up in front of the shops, we saw a colored fellow