"_There are the Red Coats! We must beat them today, or Molly Stork's a widow!_" Again, the boy is being awakened from sleep in his bed in a quiet street of eighteenth-century Philadelphia.

The voice of the watchman is crying the hour and the thrilling tidings.

"_Two o'clock in the morning! All's well, and Cornwallis has surrendered!_" Here, on the Murray Hill of May, 1918, the man becomes the boy once more.

Perhaps the suggestion comes from one of the women's faces that are looking straight at him, beseechingly and rebukingly, from the posters that line the Avenue; the face of "The Greatest Mother in the World," or that younger face beyond which the eye perceives dim outlines of marching men in khaki.

The veil with the Red Cross is transformed into a coiffure of powdered hair, crowning the countenance and figure of a _grande dame_ of the eighteenth century.