In the Army Zone hospital, supposed to be sick, he is not allowed outside except under certain conditions, and then in charge of a nurse. When convalescent, he is quarantined in the Eclopes. Here, rather than moon his time away, and to keep from going stark crazy, he asks to be sent back to the front. In the hospitals of the interior, he gets much more liberal treatment. If able, he may wander about, without a chaperon, in the afternoons. He will buy a red herring and walk up the middle of the street eating it. Four men go into a shop, buy five cents worth of cheese, and each pays for his own wine. Store windows have an irresistible attraction for him. Post cards hold his gaze for hours. A whistling small boy brings him to a full stop. He has not heard such a happy sound for a long time. He blesses the little fellow for showing so much cheer in the midst of suffering. After several days, he notices people stare at him a good deal. Yes, he limps too much. Every step brings pain. He senses their kindly sympathy but, somehow or other, resents it. So, he goes out into the country, where, while he rests in the lap of Nature, the warm sun helps the doctors coax the poison from the wound, rheumatism from the joints, and shock from the system. Away from the front, away from the busy haunts of men, all through France, in chateaux, in old convents and high schools, in sisters’ hospitals, conducted by the Union of Femmes de France, the Society of Dames Francaises, and the Society Secours aux Malades and Blesses Militaires, under the kindly treatment of those unswerving, unflinching nurses, he recovers his strength, then goes to the front for Freedom or Glory Immortal. I shall not forget the many little courtesies received in the French hospitals at Saumur, Montreuil-Ballay, Remiremont, Pont de Veyle and Bourg. Suffering unites the sympathetic. Pain is the barometer that tests the human fiber. The soldier, who has been through the fire with his fellows, who has been wounded, as they were, who suffered, as they did, has an established comradeship that endures. He was interested in them and they in him. When he is low and the day ahead looks dark and dreary, he can feel their sympathy. Probably no word is spoken, but he knows the whole ward is pulling for him. He does not want to disappoint his friends. He rises to the occasion. That sympathy means the difference between life and death. In the early days of the war, flowers, cigarettes, reading matter and luxuries, were showered upon wounded soldiers. Gradually, as private and public interests demanded attention, visitors were compelled to work for themselves, or for the State.