It was the twilight hour. Paris was busily honking and tooting outside the broad windows of Madame Villard's apartment.
The apartment looked out upon one of Paris' finest avenues. And Paris has many fine avenues. This had been Madame Villard's home for many years.
It was here she had raised her family—her boy and her girl. It was the same girl whose "dear little, dark-haired baby" had just come into the world.
"May I—may I see her?" asked Madame Villard softly.
The nurse led her into the room, and the grandmother looked with tear-dimmed eyes upon this first grandchild.
Baby Margot (mär´-gō) was Madame's first grandchild. At least, that is what Madame thought. Little did Madame Villard know that at this same moment another grandchild of hers was opening wondering brown eyes upon the same world!
The same world and the same country, France! Yet how different was this other grandchild's world from the world of little Margot!
Little soft, comfy Margot in her billowy pink and lace down! Little soft, cuddly Margot, whom Grandmother took into her arms that day! All the while, she did not know about the other grandchild.
That other grandchild did not have soft billowy pink and lace pillows on which to rest her head. That other grandchild did not have a grandmother's loving arms into which she could cuddle down.