Paul sat there and rocked the baby—his baby! He sat and rocked little Jeanne, much as his wife had rocked her before that terrible invasion.

Now his wife was gone. Little Jeanne's mother had not been able to escape as had many of the other villagers. She was dead. Weak and undernourished, the poor woman had been unable to withstand hardships and suffering in a cold, damp cellar.

The invasion had killed little Jeanne's mother. Paul alone now remained to care for this helpless mite.Paul was a troubled, frantic soldier. He would be called back to the front at any moment. What would he do with the baby?

Just then he heard the bugle and the call to arms: "To the front."

A scurrying soldier passed him and called out, "Make haste. To the front!"

Paul could not move. The baby was asleep in his arms. Little, trusting baby—his baby! The soldier dropped his head in the folds of little Jeanne's dress and sobbed.

A slight tap upon his shoulder brought Paul's head erect. Bending over him was the same old man. It was the kind-faced little peasant who had spoken to him at the cellar door."Come, my son," he said, "You are a soldier of France! Would that my old body could fight in your place! But it is you who must go. France needs you, my son."

He slowly helped the soldier to his feet, as the baby in his arms slept on.

Paul saw the light of goodness shining out of the old eyes. With a surge of joy in his heart, he held out his child.

"Oh, my friend," he cried, "if you will take my baby, I can go. I can then go and fight for France. But never, never could I leave her alone, even for France! Take her, friend, and guard her with your life."

The old peasant's eyes grew troubled. For he knew not what he, a poverty-stricken, weakened old man might do with an infant, here in this smoldering ruin of a village. But he held out his arms.

"Yes, I shall take care of her," he promised.

"With your life, my friend," repeated Paul. "Here," he added, as he pulled from his pockets handfuls of small coins. "All I have. Take it. Take her to Paris—to my mother. Wait!"

And Paul then wrote a note—a scrawled, jumbled note—to his mother, Madame Villard, in Paris.

"I am telling her you are coming with my baby—with little Jeanne," he said. "Take her to the address I write on this paper. See! I pin it to her little skirt. Hurry, my friend. Take her. Take her. Adieu, adieu, my little Jeanne!"

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´za-le-za´), 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.