"Is this your baby?" she asked.
"No, no, my child. I am taking her to Paris to—."
He tried to lift himself but fell back again.
"You are spent. You must not carry this child any farther. Come; give her to me," said the woman.
She took little Jeanne in her arms. The old man's eyes searched her face to try to fathom it. He tried to find there what he hoped to see: kindness. But all he saw was sadness.
Suzanne Moreau (mō-rō´) was one of the many refugees who had fled from her invaded village. She was one of the few in that long line who marched alone. Suzanne had always lived alone, as long as she could remember. Her life had been a lonely one. She had been a dressmaker in the small town where she had lived.
Everyone there had known her as Auntie Sue. She was Auntie Sue to children and grown-ups alike.
The old man tried to fathom Suzanne as he looked deep into her eyes and watched her wrap little Jeanne carefully in her shawl.
"I am quite alone," she said. "I am strong and shall make the march easily. Do not fear."
She gave her hand to the old man and he kissed it.