That other grandchild—but I must not talk of her. I must talk of Margot. For Margot was all that Grandmother Villard could talk about or even think of that day.
Her own little daughter's daughter! It was so wonderful to think of Margot's being here. So wonderful for poor Madame Villard, whose only son Paul was fighting at the front in the Great War.
When the war had started, Paul had gone to fight for France. Now it was many months since Madame had heard from her soldier boy.
Soon after Paul had joined the army, he had met and married Jeanne (jēn) in a tiny village of France. Paul had written to his mother in Paris, telling her of his marriage.
"You will love Jeanne," wrote Paul. "When this war is over, I shall bring her to Paris."
But the war was not over, and Jeanne had never been brought to Paris. Madame Villard did not hear from her boy again.
She did not know that on this happy day, while she held her little grandchild Margot in her arms, Paul's little girl was opening her brown eyes upon a different-looking world.
In a sad, war-stricken, bleak little village far from Paris, this other grandchild was born.