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"Ah there, girls! How are you?" — "GOD SPEED YOU" "Oh, Nathalie, I do believe there's Grace Tyson in her new motor-car," exclaimed Helen Dame, suddenly laying her hand on her companion's arm as the two girls were about to cross Main Street, the wide, tree-lined thoroughfare of the old-fashioned town of Westport, Long Island. Nathalie Page halted, and, swinging about, peered intently at the brown-uniformed figure of a young girl seated at the steering-wheel of an automobile, which was speeding quickly towards them. Yes, it was Grace, who, in her sprightliest manner, her face aglow from the invigorating breezes of an April afternoon, called out, "Ah there, girls! How are you? Oh, my lucky star must have guided me, for I have something thrilling to tell you!" As she spoke the girl guided the car to the curb, and the next moment, with an airy spring, had landed on the ground at their side. With a sudden movement the uniformed figure clicked her heels together and bent stiffly forward as her arm swung up, while her forefinger grazed her forehead in a military salute. "I salute you, comrades," she said with grave formality, "at your service as a member of the Motor Corps of America. "Yes, girls," she shrilled joyously, forgetting her assumed rôle in her eagerness to tell her news, "I'm on the job, for I'm to see active service for the United States government. I've just returned from an infantry drill of the Motor Corps at Central Park, New York. "No, I'll be honest," she added laughingly, in answer to the look of amazed inquiry on the faces of her companions, "and 'fess' that I didn't have the pleasure of drilling in public, for I'm a raw recruit as yet. We recruits go through our manual of arms at one of the New York armories, drilled by a regular army sergeant. Oh, I've been in training some time, for you know I took out my chauffeur's and mechanician's State licenses last winter.