Part 4 (1/2)

Then when changing behind the screen in Auntie's tiny dressing room, she had to be careful with the clothes--very careful. If lace should tear or a frock become soiled, Auntie would not be able to sell it. It was a careful little girl who changed behind that screen.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SHE HAD TO BE CAREFUL WITH THE CLOTHES]

But Jeanne would always answer Auntie as she smiled into her worried eyes, ”No, no, dear Auntie Sue. Never am I sad. Never do I mind the work. It is play, you know. All the other little children envy me!”

This also was true. Many children did think what fun it would be to wear all those lovely clothes and step about that gay little shop.

Some even went home and tried to imitate Jeanne. They thought it was fun. They did not know it was hard, hard work.

Jeanne answered Auntie Sue this way and really meant what she said.

Still Jeanne often wished for the days to be much longer. Jeanne wanted to play.

It was all right for those other children to play at being Jeanne. But really to be Jeanne was not play!

When those other children wearied of their game of being Jeanne they stopped. Jeanne could never stop. And there was never any time left for her to play.

Auntie Sue often noticed that Jeanne's eyes held a wistful look. Auntie Sue mistook that wistfulness and thought Jeanne was longing to possess the beautiful clothes she showed.

She thought that Jeanne was sad because, each day, she would have to take off those lovely clothes and put on her own simple little dresses.

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 (dar-tro) 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE b.l.o.o.d.y TREE]

In the Major's garden stands the ”b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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.