Ladies, right this way for titles, please, one profession after another takes up the call to-day. New York University at its opening last fall registered 110 women in its law school, the largest number ever entered there. Already the American medical women are called and coming. New York City has recently appointed women doctors for nearly every municipal institution. The first mobile hospital unit of American women physicians with a hospital of 100 beds, to be known as the Women’s Oversea Hospital Unit, is now in France. It is backed financially by the National Women’s Suffrage Association. And it goes from that first original outpost of the professional woman’s cause, Elizabeth Blackwell’s New York Infirmary for Women and Children. Meanwhile the entire Medical Women’s National Association is being organised for war service under the direction of Dr. Rosalie S. Morton, who has been made a member of the General Medical Board of the United States Government at Washington. The American Women’s Hospitals are being formed for civilian relief at home and for service with Pershing’s army. From the Surgeon General’s headquarters in Washington the announcement is made: “There will be need for the war service of every woman physician in the United States.” And through the vast Salle de Pas-Perdus of the world, the professional women are passing. The Lost Footsteps! O, the Lost Footsteps! Forward the advancing columns. Hush, there are ways that are not our ways! On with the new woman movement, but with banners furled before the woe of a world! For all the pæans of our victory are drowned in the dirge of our grief. CHAPTER VIII AT THE GATES OF GOVERNMENT The man in khaki stood at the door. And he held a woman close to his heart in mansion or cottage—in a rose bowered cottage on the English downs, or red roofed behind the yellow walls of France and Italy, or blue trimmed beside a linden tree in Germany, or ikon blessed in Russia. All that he had in the world, his estates, his fields or his vineyards, his flocks or his factory, his shop or his job, his home and his children, he was leaving behind. “I leave them to you, dear,” he said. The bugles blew. And he kissed her again. Then he went marching down the street in those fateful days of August, 1914, when all the world began going to war.