But the little wanderer was not claimed the next day, nor the next week. Time went on, and Lady Jane was considered a permanent inmate of the home. She wore the plain uniform of blue, and her long golden hair was plaited in a thick braid, but still she was lovely, although not as picturesque as when Pepsie brushed her waving locks. She was so lovely in person and so gentle and obedient that she soon became the idol, not only of the good Margaret, but of all the Sisters, and even of the children, and her singing was a constant pleasure, for every day her voice became stronger and richer, and her thrilling little strains went straight to the hearts of those who heard them.
“She must be taught music,” said Margaret to Sister Agnes; “such a voice must be carefully cultivated for the church.” Therefore the Sister who took her in charge devoted herself to the development of the child’s wonderful talent, and in a few months she was spoken of as quite a musical prodigy, and all the wealthy patronesses of the home singled her out as one that was rare and beautiful, and showered all sorts of gifts and attentions upon her. Among those who treated her with marked favor was Mrs. Lanier. She never visited the home without asking for little Jane (Margaret had thought it best to drop the “Lady,” and the child, with an intuition of what was right, complied with the wish), and never went away without leaving some substantial evidence of her interest in the child.
“I believe Mrs. Lanier would like to adopt little Jane,” said Margaret one day to Sister Agnes, when that lady had just left. “If she hadn’t so many children of her own, I don’t think she would leave her long with us.”
“It is surprising, the interest she takes in her,” returned Sister Agnes. “When the child sings she just sits as if she was lost to everything, and listens with all her soul.”
“And she asks the strangest questions about the little thing,” continued Margaret reflectively. “And she is always suggesting some way to find out who the child belonged to; but although I’ve tried every way I can think of, I have never been able to learn anything satisfactory.”
It was true Margaret had made every effort from the very first to discover something of the child’s antecedents; but she had been unsuccessful, owing in a measure to Lady Jane’s reticence. She had tried by every means to draw some remarks from her that would furnish a clue to work upon; but all that she could ever induce the child to say was to repeat the simple statement she had made the first night, when the good woman found her, cold and forlorn, clinging to the iron railing in front of the Home.
But Lady Jane’s reticence was not from choice. It was fear that kept her silent about her life in Good Children Street. Often she would be about to mention Pepsie, Mam’selle Diane, or the Paichoux, but the fear of Tante Pauline would freeze the words on her lips. And she was so happy where she was that even her sorrow for the loss of Tony was beginning to die out. She loved the good Sisters, and her grateful little heart clung to Margaret who had saved her from being sent back to Tante Pauline and the dreadful fate of a little street beggar. And the warm-hearted little orphans were like sisters to her; they were merry little playmates, and she was a little queen among them. And there was the church, with the beautiful altar, the pictures, the lights, and the music. Oh, how heavenly the music was, and how she loved to sing with the Sisters! and the grand organ notes carried her little soul up to the celestial gates on strains of sweet melody. Yes, she loved it all and was very happy, but she never ceased to think of Pepsie, Madelon, and Gex, and when she sang, she seemed always to be with Mam’selle Diane, nestled close to her side, and, mingled with the strong, rich voices of the Sisters, she fancied she heard the sweet, faded strains of her beloved teacher and friend.
Sometimes when she was studying her lessons she would forget for a moment where she was, and her book would fall in her lap, and again she would be sitting with Pepsie, shelling pecans or watching with breathless interest a game of solitaire; and at times when she was playing with the children suddenly she would remember the ancient “professeur of the dance,” and she would hold out her little blue skirt, and trip and whirl as gracefully in her coarse shoes as she did when Gex was her teacher.
And so the months went on with Lady Jane, while her friends in Good Children Street never ceased to talk of her and to lament over their loss. Poor Mam’selle Diane was in great trouble. Madame d’Hautreve was very ill, and there was little hope of her recovery. “She may linger through the spring,” the doctor said, “but you can hardly expect to keep her through the summer.” And he was right, for during the last days of the dry, hot month of August, the poor lady, one of the last of an old aristocracy, closed her dim eyes on a life that had been full of strange vicissitudes, and was laid away in the ancient tomb of the d’Hautreves, not far from Lady Jane’s young mother. And Mam’selle Diane, the noble, patient, self-sacrificing daughter, was left alone in the little house, with her memories, her flowers, and her birds. And often, during those first bitter days of bereavement, she would say to herself, “Oh, if I had that sweet child now, what a comfort she would be to me! To hear her heavenly little voice would give me new hope and courage.”
On the morning of Madame d’Hautreve’s funeral, when Paichoux opened his paper at the breakfast table, he uttered such a loud exclamation of surprise that Tante Modeste almost dropped the coffee-pot.