The last words were heard afar off, as the father of little Jeanne joined his regiment. Then he marched to the front, into the face of a cruel battle. The old man stood still and watched the soldier disappearing. He and this baby were the only remaining inhabitants in this town. The rest were marching, marching, on their way to Paris. He, too, must march to Paris. An old man with a baby! It was a long way, but he had given his word to a soldier of France. Did this not make of him a soldier, too? The old body stiffened, and he stood erect. His hand slowly saluted the departing troops. He, too, was a soldier. He looked at the address which Paul had pinned to the skirt of little Jeanne: Madame Villard, Avenue Champs Elysées (shän´zā-lē-zā´), Paris. Paris? Why, yes; he could walk to Paris. He was a soldier! Marching refugees from other villages were constantly passing. The old man joined the peasant procession. On his lips were the words, "On, on, on to Paris! On, on, on!" And little Jeanne thought it was a lullaby and slept. CHAPTER IV ON TO PARIS On trudged the old man. In his arms slept little Jeanne. She was as happy as Margot that day. Margot lay among the sweet-smelling cushions of her baby carriage and was rolled along the smooth walks of Paris parks. But little Jeanne's "carriage" was not so soft, nor did it roll along. Indeed the old man's gait grew more and more jerky with every step. He watched the rest of the refugees passing him by. There were families with many children. There were men and women carrying mattresses and clothing, pots and pans. There were dogs running along and barking. They all passed the old man. Each one had another with whom to walk. But the old man walked alone. It grew very hard--this walking. He rested often, and each time it was harder to rise and to start the walk again. Only his promise to a soldier of France kept his old body going. At last he dropped heavily at the side of the road. Jeanne was asleep. The thud awoke her. The old man could go no farther. Jeanne did not cry. She was happy and satisfied. She had been well cared for. When they had passed farms with cows, little Jeanne had been fed. The old man looked at her and touched the little soft cheek with his horny hand. "Little one, I am finished," he whispered. "I have tried so hard, but Paris is too far--too far. It is too far to the front." With that, the old man slept. Jeanne lay in his arms and blew bubbles to the sky. She watched the trees as they swayed back and forth. "This world is a pleasant place," it would seem the tiny girl was thinking. [Illustration: VERY OLD STONE HOUSES IN A LITTLE VILLAGE OF FRANCE] For a long time the old man slept. He was awakened by the sound of a clear voice. He looked into the sad face of a young woman in a black shawl. She was holding Jeanne's two little hands in her fingers. "Is this your baby?" she asked. "No, no, my child. I am taking her to Paris to--."