crawl into a thicket, and so they went away finally.

"We were several miles from our base, and with no petrol to be had for
love or money. Morgan said he'd stay by the plane while I walked all the
way to get a supply. Tom, it was the luckiest thing going for this child
here that I decided on taking that walk along the woods road; I don't
know what would have become of her otherwise."

He stopped speaking to pat the black-haired child caressingly. That was
really one of the finest things marking the conduct of the American
soldiers in France--their respect for women and their love for children.
Those boys in khaki captured myriads of French mothers' hearts by the
way they romped with the youngsters and bought them all sorts of
dainties at the Y. M. C. A. huts.

"I came on her suddenly, and of course stopped to say a few words,
because it is hard for me to pass a child by," Jack continued. "And
after I'd asked her a few questions I found that I was getting mightily
interested in Jeanne.

"Then she began tugging at something that was fastened by a ribbon about
her neck. I soon discovered it was a locket, somewhat battered to be
sure, but still pretty. She proceeded to try to open this, but her
chubby little fingers didn't seem equal to the task, so I did it for
her.

"It held a bit of very thin paper, and on taking this out I found it was
covered with writing, in French of course, and done with a lead pencil
at that. Slowly I managed to make out what the letter said, for it was a
letter, Tom, meant especially for me, simply because I had been, by
chance, the one to stop and speak to the child.

"Listen now, Tom, and I'll read you what is written here on the paper,
just as I managed to translate it. And be ready to hold your breath,
too, because there's something of a real thrill connected with it."

"Shoot!" was all Tom said in reply.

CHAPTER IV

THE STORY OF THE LORRAINE WAIF

JACK had taken the locket in question out of his coat-pocket and opened
it, extracting the folded paper it contained. This latter he smoothed
out, for it was a mass of creases, from having been crushed into so
small a receptacle.

"'To the kind friend who finds my child,' it
starts," said Jack impressively. "'Her name is
Jeanne Anstey. I am her wretched and dying mother,
dying for my beloved France. It is the Boche who
has done this. They came at daylight, and burned