“I have just written to her grandfather,” said Mrs. Lanier, after they had sent her away to the children, all smiles and dimples again. “I see by the papers that he has returned from Europe. There’s not the least doubt that she is Jane’s child, and, if he has any heart, he’ll come and investigate this mystery. I don’t dare to do anything until I hear from him.”
“That will be very soon; he will probably be here in a day or two, for he is on his way now.”
“Arthur, what do you mean? How has he heard?”
“Oh, Lady Jane has a great many friends who are deeply interested in her. Paichoux, the dairyman, has been in correspondence with the millionaire, and I have been interviewing Paichoux. The little Frenchman put me on Paichoux’s track. It seems that Paichoux got Mrs. Churchill’s watch from Madame Jozain’s son, and Paichoux was inspired to write to the jeweler in New York, whose name and the number of the watch were on the inside of the case, to find out for whom that especial watch was made. After some delay a letter came from Mr. Richard Chetwynd himself, telling Paichoux that the watch was made for his daughter Jane Chetwynd. The jeweler had forwarded Paichoux’s letter to Mr. Chetwynd, who was in Paris, and the millionaire has hastened home to investigate, which is a favorable omen for Lady Jane.”
The next day, the day before Christmas, and just one year from the time when Lady Jane sat on the church steps eating the bread and apple supplied her by a charitable impulse, she was making almost a royal progress in Mrs. Lanier’s carriage, as lovely in her rich dress as a little fairy, and every bit as much admired as Pepsie had predicted she would be when, in the future, she should ride in a blue chariot drawn by eight white horses. Mrs. Lanier’s generosity allowed her to remember every one with suitable gifts, and her visit to Good Children Street was something to be long remembered. Mrs. Lanier almost blushed with shame and regret when she found herself once more in the presence of Diana d’Hautreve, to think that for all these years she had forgotten one who was once a queen in society both by right of birth and wealth. “It is unpardonable in me,” she said to herself when she saw the gentle, lonely woman hold the child to her heart so fondly. “It is unpardonable to forget and neglect one so entirely worthy of the best, simply because she is poor. However, now that I have discovered her through Lady Jane, I will try to make up for the indifference of years, by every attention that I can show her.”
While these thoughts were passing through Mrs. Lanier’s mind, Lady Jane was unfolding before Mam’selle Diane’s dazzled eyes a rich mourning silk. “You must have it made right away,” she whispered, pressing her rosy cheek to her friend’s, “for Mrs. Lanier says you will visit your friends again, and I want you to wear my Christmas present the first time you go out.”
Then Pepsie was made happy with a beautiful wheeled chair for the street, which was so arranged with numerous springs that she could be lifted over rough places without hurting her poor back, and Madelon was the recipient of a beautiful warm cloak, and Tite’s love of finery was fully gratified by a gay hat “wid fedders on it.” Little Gex was fitted out with a supply of useful articles, and the Paichoux, one and all, were remembered with gifts suitable for each; while the orphans’ Christmas tree was loaded with presents from Lady Jane, who only the year before had clung to the railings, cold and hungry, and peeped in at the glittering display which was being prepared for other little orphans not half as friendless and needy as she was.
And the homely, kind face of Margaret fairly shone with happiness, as she watched her little favorite dispensing her pretty gifts.
And there was one hour of that happy Christmas eve that Lady Jane never forgot. It was when Margaret took her into the chapel and bade her kneel before the statue of our Saviour, who was once a little child, and thank him devoutly for all the good things that had come to her. Then, when she rose from her knees, the sister who had taught her music played a sweet Ave Maria on the organ, and the child’s angelic voice rose upward in a rapturous song of praise and adoration; while Margaret knelt, with bowed head and clasped hands, patient, humble, resigned, but yet sorrowful at losing the lamb she had taken to her heart and cherished so tenderly.