One evening two men walked into the cafe and from their talk Suzanne knew they were from _l'ecole_. She sat down and listened to them. They talked about the war, about aviation, about deeds of heroism, and Suzanne drank in every word, for they were talking the language of her dead lover. The two aviators stayed to dinner, but the big room was not good enough. They must come back to the family dinner--to the intimacy of the back room. They stayed all night and left early next morning, but before they left they wrote their names in a big book. To-day, Suzanne has the book, filled full of names, many now famous, many names that are only a memory--that is how it started. When the two pilots went back to _l'ecole_, they spoke in glowing terms of "Suzanne's," of the soft beds, of the delicious dinner, and, I think, mostly of Suzanne. Visitors came after that to eat at "Suzanne's," and to see her famous book. They came regularly and, finally, "Suzanne's" became an institution. Always, a _pilote_ was taken into the back room; he ate with the family, he told them all the news from _l'ecole_, and, in exchange, he heard stories about the early days, stories that will never be printed, but which embody examples of the heroism and intelligence that have done their part to develop aviation. Soon, we went in to dinner, and such a dinner! Truly, nothing is too good for an aviator at "Suzanne's," and they give of their best to these wandering strangers. They do not ask your name, they call every one _Monsieur_, but before you leave you sign the book and they all crowd around to look, without saying anything. Your name means nothing yet, but a year from now, perhaps, who can tell? In the first pages are names that have been bywords for years and some that are famous the world over. After dinner, Suzanne slipped away, presently to reappear with a special bottle and glasses. I felt sure this was part of the entertainment afforded all their winged visitors, for they went about it in a practised manner; each was familiar with his or her part, but to me it was all delightfully new. Our glasses were filled, and Suzanne raised hers up first. Without a word, she looked around the circle. Her eyes met them all, then rested with madame. She had not said a word; it was "papa" who proposed my health, and as the bottoms went up, Suzanne and madame both had a struggle to repress a tear. They were drinking my health, but their thoughts were far away, and in my heart I was wishing that happiness might again come to them. Suzanne certainly deserves it. When I returned to school, they asked, "Did you stop at 'Suzanne's'?" And now to the others, just ready to make the voyage, I always say, "Be sure to stop at 'Suzanne's'." GREAYER CLOVER. THE MAKING OF A MAN I