She did not know that on this happy day, while she held her little grandchild Margot in her arms, Paul's little girl was opening her brown eyes upon a different-looking world. In a sad, war-stricken, bleak little village far from Paris, this other grandchild was born. CHAPTER II PAUL Jeanne's baby was as beautiful as little Margot, though she did not lie upon lacy pillows in a Paris apartment. Jeanne held the child tightly in her arms, as she rocked back and forth on a broken chair, and as she rocked she looked out upon the poor, little village street. Jeanne was a troubled young mother. Paul had been at the front for many weeks now. He did not even know that little Jeanne was born. If only Paul would come back to the village! There was talk of an invasion. Many small towns of France were being invaded and burned by the enemy. Would this little town be next? Each day the villagers asked themselves this question and lived in terror. Many had already started to tramp toward Paris. Many were deserting the village. But Jeanne could not go. There was little Jeanne now. And even if she could have gone, she would never have left until her Paul had come back. Each day a letter went to Paul at the front. Each day Jeanne trembled at the postman's footsteps outside her door. But no news. Only whispers and more whispers of invasion--invasion! Oh, if Paul would only come back! Jeanne rocked her baby. The invasion came. It was one of the last invasions before the Great War came to an end. The enemy burned the little town to the ground. The great march of the refugees had started. The roads to Paris were alive with homeless people--struggling, homeless humanity, with only the hope of reaching Paris alive. The village--Paul's village--was a desolate place. As the troop of French soldiers returned after the invasion and marched into it, there was not a soul to be seen. Among those marching French soldiers came Paul. [Illustration: A GROUP OF TYPICAL THATCH ROOFED HOUSES IN A LITTLE FRENCH VILLAGE] To the scene of his home he ran. Everything--everything was in ruins! His house! Gone! His wife! "Jeanne! Jeanne!" Paul's voice was a shriek. "Look, my son, in the cellar. Many of them hid in cellars for days before." It was a kind-faced old man speaking. The distracted Paul dashed into the underground stone cave and called again, "Jeanne, oh, Jeanne!" A little sound came from a corner in the dark, damp cellar. The soldier stopped suddenly, and his ears became those of a forest animal, so sharp, so alert was he. "My little one! Jeanne!" he called. He struck a match. His heart nearly stopped. His Jeanne was not there. But something moved in the corner--something small and white. "A baby!" Paul gasped. His voice had dropped to a husky whisper. He lifted the small, white bundle. It was a baby--a tiny young baby! The soldier carried the child out into the light. The little one touched his cheek with a pink hand.