[Illustration: A UNIQUE OLD WINDMILL IN PICTURESQUE FRANCE] And while Madame Villard waited thus for little Jeanne, Suzanne Moreau was bringing the baby to Paris. On the tramp Suzanne had found the child a sweet and tender thing. Little Jeanne had hardly ever cried. She was satisfied and sleepy, or gurgling and gay. Her life had been a rough one and her feedings irregular and sometimes insufficient. Still the baby had seemed happy, and Suzanne had smiled a great deal more than she had ever before smiled in her life. Before the march was over, little Jeanne was the only child Suzanne had ever kissed. For a long time after reaching Paris, Suzanne Moreau's only thought was to tend this baby for whom she had promised to care. She expected to take the baby to the home where it belonged. But her first thought was to give the child a few days' good care and food before giving her up. It was a thought which Suzanne would never have admitted was selfish. But the truth was that little Jeanne's baby fingers had so tenderly wound themselves about the heart of Suzanne Moreau that already the thought of parting with her was unbearable. A few days passed. Then a week, and then more days. "I should. I should," sighed Suzanne, as she watched the little girl sucking contentedly on her bottle. Then when the bottle was emptied, Baby Jeanne lifted her two pink hands. In her arms Suzanne rocked the baby back and forth and murmured, "No, no, my little one, ma chérie (mä shĕr-ē´, which means "my dear" in French), I cannot give you up. Not yet." This went on for some time. At last one night Suzanne determined to go to that address on the Avenue Champs Elysées. She went alone. She left the child in the care of a woman with whom she boarded. Before the tall stone building, Suzanne stood and marveled. It seemed a palace to the little village dressmaker. How could she keep this child from a home like that? To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, she would take Jeanne to her rightful home. As she turned to leave, a big motor car drew up at the curb, and a black figure stepped out. Madame Villard had returned from another unsuccessful search. She was returning to her daughter and to little Margot, discouraged, disappointed, and heart-sick. Little did she know that the slight figure turning the corner was Suzanne Moreau. Little did she dream that this woman turning the corner was hurrying back to her own grandchild, who slept in a poor little Paris boarding house. [Illustration: THE MARIE ANTOINETTE COTTAGE NEAR VERSAILLES PALACE] Suzanne began to arrange the few little clothes she had bought for Jeanne. She made a bundle. Then she took from her drawer the locket which the child had worn about her neck. She opened it. Paul's face seemed to be smiling at her. Often before she had opened this locket, but never had the soldier face seemed so happy as now. Suzanne knew why. It was because she was going to take Jeanne to her place--her rightful home.