It was only natural for Auntie to suppose this because Jeanne loved and caressed each new garment that Auntie made. She seemed always so happy to put them on. But here is a secret: Jeanne never once thought about those clothes after she took them off. She liked her little gingham dresses just as well. In fact, Jeanne would not have cared one bit what she wore, if only she could have played. Auntie Sue did not know that. CHAPTER VII MAJOR d'ARTROT One morning Major d'Artrot (där-trō) received a letter from an old friend. It was a good friend: Madame Villard. Madame Villard wrote that she expected to spend a night at the Major's inn. A tiny tumbled farm was Major d'Artrot's Inn. Before the war it had been his fine and prosperous home. But the Major had been obliged to turn his home into a hotel. For the war had made him a poor man. Fighting and scenes of horror had taken place on that peaceful farm. It had been occupied by the Germans. Later a terrible battle, one of the famous battles of the Argonne, had been fought there. [Illustration: THE BLOODY TREE] In the Major's garden stands the "Bloody Tree." The name is enough to tell what happened beneath its tall branches. A pole with wires still stands outside the Major's house. It is a telegraph pole raised by the American soldiers during the war. When the war was over, people came to see the Major's farm. People were curious, interested. There was the cellar where some poor souls had lived for weeks, listening to the booming of the battles in the woods near-by. [Illustration: AMERICAN TELEGRAPH WIRES IN THE MAJOR'S GARDEN] There were the German helmets captured during that last battle. There were many, many reasons why travelers were drawn to Major d'Artrot's farm. So Major d'Artrot turned his house into a hotel. One of his dearest friends was Madame Villard. She had helped make life easier for the Major and for his little brood. During the long years following the death of her son, the Major had tried to help the stricken mother in her search for her lost granddaughter. He had at last gathered for her the information that on that famous march an old peasant had been seen with a baby. Some one had seen him. But he had fallen on the weary march. They knew that. But they did not know about the baby. Nobody could tell Madame Villard what had happened to the baby. To-day the Major received Madame Villard's letter. "Poor Madame!" he sighed, as he finished reading. "She does not give up hope, even through all these years." And he thought of the little black figure which soon would step from the big, glossy car. She would take what comfort this poor family could provide. She would make happy the Major's children with gifts and toys. Her simple room would be generously paid for.