Transcriber’s Note
  Italic text displayed as: _italic_




LADY JANE

[Illustration: LADY JANE WAS LINGERING ON THE SIDEWALK, NEAR THE GREEN
FENCE]




  LADY JANE

  BY

  MRS. C. V. JAMISON

  Author of “Toinette’s Philip”

  [Illustration: Decoration]

  NEW YORK
  THE CENTURY CO.
  1922




  Copyright, 1891, by
  THE CENTURY CO.

  Copyright renewed 1918

  PRINTED IN U. S. A.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE

  I      THE BLUE HERON                                                3

  II     TONY GOES WITH LADY JANE                                     19

  III    MADAME JOZAIN                                                25

  IV     AN INTERRUPTED JOURNEY                                       36

  V      LAST DAYS AT GRETNA                                          48

  VI     PEPSIE                                                       56

  VII    THE ARRIVAL                                                  63

  VIII   LADY JANE FINDS A FRIEND                                     72

  IX     THE FIRST VISIT TO PEPSIE                                    81

  X      LADY JANE FINDS OTHER FRIENDS                                91

  XI     THE VISIT TO THE PAICHOUX                                   101

  XII    TANTE MODESTE’S SUSPICIONS                                  109

  XIII   ONE OF THE NOBILITY                                         117

  XIV    LADY JANE VISITS THE D’HAUTREVES                            125

  XV     LADY JANE FINDS A MUSIC-TEACHER                             133

  XVI    PEPSIE IS JEALOUS                                           141

  XVII   LADY JANE’S DANCING-MASTER                                  150

  XVIII  LADY JANE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS                              158

  XIX    MARDI-GRAS                                                  167

  XX     LADY JANE DINES WITH MR. GEX                                178

  XXI    AFTER THE CARNIVAL                                          187

  XXII   PAICHOUX MAKES A PURCHASE                                   195

  XXIII  MADAME JOZAIN CALLS UPON MAM’SELLE DIANE                    211

  XXIV   RASTE THE PRODIGAL                                          219

  XXV    THE JEWEL-BOX                                               228

  XXVI   THE FLIGHT                                                  235

  XXVII  THE LITTLE STREET SINGER                                    241

  XXVIII LADY JANE FINDS SHELTER                                     254

  XXIX   TANTE MODESTE FINDS LADY JANE                               264

  XXX    AT MRS. LANIER’S                                            274

  XXXI   LADY JANE COMES TO HER OWN                                  288

  XXXII  A MERRY CHRISTMAS                                           299

  XXXIII AS IT IS NOW                                                313




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  Lady Jane was lingering on the sidewalk, near the
  green fence                                             _Frontispiece_

                                                                  FACING
                                                                    PAGE

  Mr. Gex at the door of his shop                                     96

  Lady Jane is presented to Madame D’Hautreve                        128

  “Yes, Lady dear, I want you to learn to play on the piano, and
  I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking of,” said Pepsie             148

  She cried out pitifully, “It’s Lady Jane”                          180

  Madame Jozain bargains for her moving                              236

  Lady Jane, clinging to the railing, looked and looked              256

  “Oh, oh! It’s Tony!” cried Lady Jane                               300




LADY JANE




LADY JANE




CHAPTER I

THE BLUE HERON


It was in the beautiful Teche country, on a passenger train of the
Louisiana and Texas Railroad, that “Lady Jane” first saw a blue heron.

The month was July, the weather was intensely hot, and the dusty,
ill-ventilated car was closely packed with a motley crowd. Among the
travelers were Texas ranchmen, cattle dealers from the Opelousas, Cajan
farmers from the Attakapas, nuns, priests, itinerant merchants, tired,
dusty women, dressed in cotton gowns and sun-bonnets, and barefooted,
white-headed children, very noisy and restless, wandering constantly
back and forth between the water-tank and their lunch-baskets, eating
cold chicken or munching stale biscuit. The ranchmen and cattle
dealers talked in loud, good-natured voices; the nuns bent over
their prayer-books; the priests yawned and nodded; the merchants
displayed their wares; the children fretted; the babies cried, while
the weary mothers patted, tossed, and coaxed them with untiring love
and patience; and the train flew on, with its hot, dusty passengers,
over as beautiful a country as ever was seen, through level stretches
of sugar-cane and rice, crossed by narrow bayous that intersected the
green plane, catching here and there gleams of sunlight, like silver
threads, through the dark cypress swamps, whose bleached trees were
crowned with hoary moss, while the trunks were clothed in living
green, and festooned with the lovely blossoms of the jasmine, and
wild passion-flowers entwined with masses of delicate vines, twisted
together in cords and loops of luxuriant verdure, that clambered
upward from the dank soil toward the sunlight and the blue sky. In
places the track seemed to run over beds of glossy latanea and swaying
swamp-grasses, where glistened little shallow pools covered with
lily-pads and white fragrant blossoms.

In spite of the intense heat, the day was beautiful. Great banks of
white clouds drifted across the sun, softening its ruddy glare, and
throwing fantastic shadows over the floating prairies and purple
islands of cypress that dotted the broad yellow expanse. Now and
then, a flock of birds, startled by the rush of the train, rose up
with a shrill cry and noisy whirr of wings, and soared away in a long,
trailing line toward the lazy drifting clouds.

Of all the passengers, there were, perhaps, none who noticed or cared
for the strange and beautiful scenery, that constantly changed as
the train sped on, except the quiet occupants of one seat, who were
so unlike those around them as to attract no little attention and
curiosity. They were a woman and a child; the lady, young, elegant, and
pretty, was dressed in deep mourning; the little girl, who was about
five years of age, wore a white cambric frock, plain, but exquisitely
fine, a wide straw hat, and long black-silk stockings, and her neat
shoes were tied with tiny bows. Her skin was delicately fair and rosy,
her eyes of purple-blue were shaded by long dark lashes, and her hair,
of a pure golden yellow, hung in a thick, wavy mass down to the loops
of her black sash. She was a dainty, delicate little creature, and,
although very warm and very tired, was evidently too well-bred to annoy
others with restlessness or impatience, but remained quietly kneeling
on the seat, at the window of the car, her bright eyes fixed on the
beautiful landscape, as the train rushed along.

The mother had thrown back her heavy crape veil, and a little ripple
of hair as yellow as the child’s showed beneath the widow’s cap.
She looked very weary and ill; her eyes were heavy and swollen with
weeping; her face, thin and worn in spite of her youth, was flushed
with fever, and her lips were parched and drawn as if she suffered
intense pain. At times, she pressed her hand to her forehead and closed
her eyes; then, she would start suddenly and look about her, with a
glance of apprehension, and her clasp would tighten around the child at
her side, as if she feared to lose her hold of her even for a moment;
and, now and then, the little girl would lean back her rosy face, and
press it to her mother’s flushed cheek, saying softly:

“Does your dear head ache, now, mama?”

“A little, darling,” the mother would answer, as she smoothed the
golden hair that fell over her black gown.

Then the child would turn back to the window to watch the flight of
birds, the purple islands of cypress, and the shadows sailing over the
billowy grasses of the floating prairies. And so the train sped on and
on, and the morning was verging to noon, when suddenly she turned with
eyes full of delight, and said to her mother, whose head had drooped
into her open palms:

“Look, mama! Oh, look at the lovely river! See what big trees, and
pretty houses, and there is a big boat coming, and lots and lots of
lambs are playing in the field. Oh, I wish we could stop here, and walk
about a little! Can’t we, mama?”

“No, my dear; there’s no time to get off,” replied the mother, raising
her hand and looking out wearily. “Be patient, darling; we shall soon
be in New Orleans, and there you shall have everything you wish.”

The train had stopped at a small station on the Teche to take on a
passenger, who entered with a brisk step, and slipped into a seat just
vacated opposite the mother and child. He was a handsome lad of about
sixteen years. His merry brown eyes looked out frankly from under his
dark brows; he had a pleasant smile, and the manly, self-reliant air of
one accustomed to travel alone.

In one hand he carried a traveling-bag, and in the other a small
basket, over which a piece of thin cloth was tightly tied. He sat
down, glancing around him with a bright smile, and placing the basket
beside him, tapped on the thin cover with his forefinger, and chirruped
merrily to the occupant. Presently an answering “Peep—peep!” came from
the depths of the basket, at which he laughed heartily.

From the first moment that the new passenger entered the car, the
little yellow head of the child was turned in his direction, and the
deep blue eyes were fixed on him with an expression of serious interest.

When he laughed so merrily, her lips trembled and her eyes filled
with tears, and overcome with some emotion that she vainly tried to
suppress, she buried her face on her mother’s shoulder and whispered
brokenly:

“Oh, mama, mama, he laughs as papa used to.”

“Hush, hush, my darling!” said the mother, bending an agonized face
over the child, while she soothed her gently; “Don’t cry, my love,
don’t cry, or I shall be ill again.”

In an instant the little head was raised resolutely, and the child
smiled with the tears glistening on her lashes, while her eyes turned
again toward the stranger, who seemed to attract her greatly.

The boy had noticed the lovely little creature and the sorrowful young
mother, and his generous heart went out to them at once; therefore,
when the child raised her tearful eyes and looked at him so earnestly,
he smiled responsively and invitingly.

Again the little head went shyly down to the mother’s shoulder, and she
whispered:

“Mama, there’s something alive in that basket. How I wish I could see
it!”

“My dear, he’s a stranger. I can’t ask him to show it to you; he might
not be willing.”

“Oh, I think he would, mama! He smiled at me when I looked at him.
Can’t _I_ ask him? Please,—please let me.”

The mother turned a side glance in the direction of the boy, who moved
a little nearer the end of the seat and looked at her intelligently, as
if he understood that they were speaking of him. Their eyes met, and
he smiled good-naturedly, while he nodded and pointed to the basket.
“I thought she would like to see it,” he said, as he began untying the
string that fastened the cover.

“You’re very kind to gratify her curiosity,” said the mother, in a
gentle voice; “she’s sure that it’s something alive.”

“It is,” laughed the boy. “It’s very much alive; so much so that I’m
almost afraid to take off the cover.”

“Go, my darling, and see what it is,” said the mother, as the child
slipped past her and stood before the boy, looking at him from under
the shadow of her black hat with eager, inquiring eyes.

“I don’t think you’ve ever seen anything like him before. They’re not
common, and he’s a funny little beggar. I thought you’d like to see him
when I saw you looking at the basket. He’s very tame, but we must be
careful he doesn’t get out. With all these windows open, he’d be gone
before we knew it. Now I’ll lift the cover and hold my hand so that you
can peep in.”

The child’s head was bent over the basket, intense curiosity in her
wide eyes, and a little, anxious smile on her parted lips. “Oh, oh, how
pretty! What is it?” she asked, catching a glimpse of a strange-looking
bird, with a very long bill and little, bright eyes, huddled up at
the bottom of the basket. “I never saw one like it. What is it?” she
repeated, her sparkling eyes full of delight and surprise.

“It’s a blue heron, and they’re very rare about here.”

“He’s not blue—not _very_ blue; but he’s pretty. I wish I could just
touch his feathers.”

“You can. You can put your hand in the basket; he won’t bite.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said with confidence, as she stroked the soft
feathers.

“If these windows were closed I’d take him out, and let you see him
walk. He’s very funny when he walks; and he’s so intelligent. Why, he
comes to me when I call him.”

“What do you call him? What is his name?”

“I call him Tony, because when he was very small he made a noise like
‘tone—tone.’”

“Tony,” she repeated, “that’s a pretty name; and it’s a funny one too,”
she added, dimpling with smiles.

“Now, won’t you tell me _your_ name?” asked the boy. “I don’t mean to
be rude, but I’d like to know your name.”

“Why, yes, I’ll tell you,” she replied, with charming frankness; “I’m
called ‘Lady Jane.’”

“Lady Jane!” repeated the boy; “why, that’s a very odd name.”

“Papa always called me Lady Jane, and now every one does.”

The mother looked at the child sadly, while tears dimmed her eyes.

“Perhaps you would like to see the little fellow, too,” said the boy,
rising and holding the basket so that the lady could look into it.
“White herons are very common about here, but blue herons are something
of a curiosity.”

“Thank you. It is indeed very odd. Did you find it yourself?” she asked
with some show of interest.

“Yes, I came upon it quite unexpectedly. I was hunting on my uncle’s
plantation, just beyond the station where I got on. It was almost dark;
and I was getting out of the swamp as fast as I could, when right under
my feet I heard ‘tone—tone,’ and there was this little beggar, so young
that he couldn’t fly, looking up at me with his bright eyes. I took him
home and tamed him, and now he knows my voice the moment I speak. He’s
very amusing.”

The boy was standing, resting the basket on the arm of the seat, and
the child was caressing the bird with both dimpled hands.

“She likes him very much,” he said, smiling brightly.

“Yes, she is very fond of pets; she has left hers behind, and she
misses them,” and again the mother’s eyes filled.

“I wish,—I wish you’d let me give her Tony—if—if you’d like her to have
him.”

“Oh, thank you! No, no, I couldn’t allow you to deprive yourself.”

“I should be very willing, I assure you. I must give him away. I’m
going to give him to some one when I get to the city. I can’t take him
to college with me, and there’s no one in particular I care to give
him to. I wish you’d let me give him to this little lady,” urged the
handsome fellow, smiling into the child’s upturned eyes as he spoke.

“Oh, mama,—dear, sweet mama, let me have him; do, do let me have him!”
cried Lady Jane, clasping her dimpled hands in entreaty.

“My dear, it would be so selfish to take it. You must not, indeed you
must not,” said the mother, looking from the child to the boy in great
perplexity.

“But if I wish it—it would be a pleasure to me,” insisted the boy,
flushing with eager generosity.

“Well, I’ll think of it. You are really very kind,” she replied
wearily. “We still have some hours to decide about it. I find it very
hard to refuse the child, especially when you are so generous, but I
think she ought not to take it.”

The boy took the basket with a disappointed air, and turned toward
the seat opposite. “I hope you’ll decide to let her have it,” he said
respectfully.

“Mama,” whispered Lady Jane with her face pressed close to her
mother’s, “if you _can_, if you think it’s right, please let me have
the blue heron. You know, I had to leave my kitten, and Carlo, and the
lambs, and—and—I’m so sorry, and—I’m lonesome, mama.”

“My darling, my darling,—if you want the bird so much, I’ll try to let
you have him. I’ll think about it.”

“And, mama, may I go and sit by the basket and put my hand on his
feathers?”

“Let her come and sit with me,” said the boy; “she seems tired, and I
may be able to amuse her.”

“Thank you. Yes, she _is_ very tired. We have come a long way,—from San
Antonio,—and she’s been very good and patient.”

The boy made room for his charming little companion next the window,
and after lowering the blind, so that the bird could not escape, he
took the pet from the basket, and placed him in Lady Jane’s arms.

“See here,” he said, “I’ve sewed this band of leather around his leg,
and you can fasten a strong string to it. If your mama allows you to
have him, you can always tie him to something when you go out, and
leave him alone, and he will be there quite safe when you come back.”

“I should never leave him alone. I should keep him with me always,”
said the child.

“But, if you should lose him,” continued the boy, spreading one of the
pretty wings over Lady Jane’s plump little arm, “I’ll tell you how you
can always know him. He’s marked. It’s as good as a brand. See those
three black crosses on his wing feathers. As he grows larger they will
grow too, and no matter how long a time should pass without your seeing
him, you’d always know him by these three little crosses.”

“If mama says I can have him, I can take him with me, can’t I?”

“Certainly, this basket is very light. You can carry it yourself.”

“You know,” she whispered, glancing at her mother, who had leaned
her head on the back of the seat in front of her, and appeared to be
sleeping, “I want to see Carlo and kitty, and the ranch, and all the
lambs; but I mustn’t let mama know, because it’ll make her cry.”

“You’re a good little girl to think of your mother,” said the boy, who
was anxious to cultivate her confidence, but too well-bred to question
her.

“She has no one now but me to love her,” she continued, lowering her
voice. “They took papa from us, and carried him away, and mama says
he’ll never come back. He’s not gone to San Antonio, he’s gone to
heaven; and we can’t go there now. We’re going to New York; but I’d
rather go to heaven where papa is, only mama says there are no trains
or ships to take us there, now, but by-and-by we’re going if we’re very
good.”

The boy listened to her innocent prattle with a sad smile, glancing
uneasily now and then at the mother, fearful lest the plaintive little
voice might reach her ear; but she seemed to be sleeping, sleeping
uneasily, and with that hot flush still burning on her cheeks.

“Have you ever been in New York?” he asked, looking tenderly at the
little head nestled against his arm. She had taken off her hat, and was
very comfortably curled up on the seat with Tony in her lap. The bird
also seemed perfectly satisfied with his position.

“Oh, no; I’ve never been anywhere only on the ranch. That’s where
Carlo, and kitty, and the lambs were, and my pony, Sunflower; he was
named Sunflower, because he was yellow. I used to ride on him, and
papa lifted me on, and took me off; and Sunflower was so gentle. Dear
papa—I—loved him best of all and now he’s gone away, and I can’t see
him again.”

Here the rosy little face was buried in Tony’s feathers, and something
like a sob made the listener’s heart ache.

“Come, come,” he said softly, “you mustn’t cry, or I shall think you
don’t care for the blue heron.”

In a moment, her little head was raised, and a smile shone through
her tears. “Oh, I do, I do. And if I can have him I won’t cry for the
others.”

“I’m quite sure your mama will consent. Now, let me tell you about my
home. I live in New Orleans, and I have lots of pets,” and the boy went
on to describe so many delightful things that the child forgot her
grief in listening; and soon, very soon the weary little head drooped,
and she was sleeping with her rosy cheek pressed against his shoulder,
and Tony clasped close in her arms.

And so the long, hot afternoon passed away, and the train sped on
toward its destination, while the mother and the child slept, happily
unconscious of the strange fate that awaited them in that city, of
which the spires and walls were even now visible, bathed in the red
light of the evening sun.




CHAPTER II

TONY GOES WITH LADY JANE


And now that the end of the journey was so near, the drowsy passengers
began to bestir themselves. In order to look a little more presentable,
dusty faces and hands were hastily wiped, frowsy heads were smoothed,
tumbled hats and bonnets were arranged, and even the fretful babies,
pulled and coaxed into shape, looked less miserable in their soiled
garments, while their mothers wore an expression of mingled relief and
expectation.

Lady Jane did not open her eyes until her companion gently tried to
disengage Tony from her clasp in order to consign him to his basket;
then she looked up with a smile of surprise at her mother, who was
bending over her. “Why, mama,” she said brightly, “I’ve been asleep,
and I had such a lovely dream; I thought I was at the ranch, and the
blue heron was there too. Oh, I’m sorry it was only a dream!”

“My dear, you must thank this kind young gentleman for his care of you.
We are near New Orleans now, and the bird must go to his basket. Come,
let me smooth your hair and put on your hat.”

“But, mama, am I to have Tony?”

The boy was tying the cover over the basket, and, at the child’s
question, he looked at the mother entreatingly. “It will amuse her,” he
said, “and it’ll be no trouble. May she have it?”

“I suppose I must consent; she has set her heart on it.”

The boy held out the little basket, and Lady Jane grasped it
rapturously.

“Oh, how good you are!” she cried. “I’ll never, never forget you, and
I’ll love Tony always.”

At that moment the young fellow, although he was smiling brightly, was
smothering a pang of regret, not at parting with the blue heron, which
he really prized, but because his heart had gone out to the charming
child, and she was about to leave him, without any certainty of their
ever meeting again. While this thought was vaguely passing through his
mind, the lady turned and said to him:

“I am going to Jackson Street, which I believe is uptown. Is there not
a nearer station for that part of the city, than the lower one?”

“Certainly, you can stop at Gretna; the train will be there in a few
minutes. You cross the river there, and the ferry-landing is at the
foot of Jackson Street, where you will find carriages and horse-cars to
take you where you wish to go, and you will save an hour.”

“I’m very glad of that; my friends are not expecting me, and I should
like to reach them before dark. Is it far to the ferry?”

“Only a few blocks; you’ll have no trouble finding it,” and he was
about to add, “Can’t I go with you and show you the way?” when the
conductor flung open the door and bawled, “Grate-na! Grate-na!
passengers for Grate-na!”

Before he could give expression to the request, the conductor had
seized the lady’s satchel, and was hurrying them toward the door. When
he reached the platform, the train had stopped, and they had already
stepped off. For a moment, he saw them standing on the dusty road, the
river and the setting sun behind them—the black-robed, graceful figure
of the woman, and the fair-haired child with her violet eyes raised to
his, while she clasped the little basket and smiled.

He touched his hat and waved his hand in farewell; the mother lifted
her veil and sent him a sad good-by smile, and the child pressed her
rosy fingers to her lips, and gracefully and gravely threw him a kiss.
Then the train moved on; and the last he saw of them, they were walking
hand in hand toward the river.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the boy went back to his seat, he was reproaching himself for his
neglect and stupidity. “Why didn’t I find out her name?—or the name of
the people to whom she was going?—or why didn’t I go with her? It was
too bad to leave her to cross alone, and she a stranger and looking
so ill. She seemed hardly able to walk and carry her bag. I don’t see
how I could have been so stupid. It wouldn’t have been much out of my
way, and, if I’d crossed with them, I should have found out who they
were. I didn’t want to seem too presuming, and especially after I gave
the child the heron; but I wish I’d gone with them. Oh, she’s left
something,” and in an instant he was reaching under the seat lately
occupied by the object of his solicitude.

“It’s a book, ‘Daily Devotions,’ bound in russia, silver clasp,
monogram ‘J. C.,’” he said, as he opened it; “and here’s a name.”

On the fly-leaf was written

  JANE CHETWYND.
  From Papa,
  NEW YORK, Christmas, 18—.

“‘Jane Chetwynd,’ that must be the mother. It can’t be the child,
because the date is ten years ago. ‘New York.’ They’re from the North
then; I thought they were. Hello! here’s a photograph.”

It was a group, a family group—the father, the mother, and the child;
the father’s a bright, handsome, almost boyish face, the mother’s
not pale and tear-stained, but fresh and winsome, with smiling lips
and merry eyes, and the child, the little “Lady Jane,” clinging to
her father’s neck, two years younger, perhaps, but the same lovely,
golden-haired child.

The boy’s heart bounded with pleasure as he looked at the sweet little
face that had such a fascination for him.

“I wish I could keep it,” he thought, “but it’s not mine, and I must
try to return to it the owner. Poor woman! she will be miserable when
she misses it. I’ll advertise it to-morrow, and through it I’m likely
to find out all about them.”

Next morning some of the readers of the principal New Orleans journals
noticed an odd little advertisement among the personals:

 Found, “Daily Devotions”; bound in red russia-leather, silver clasp,
 with monogram, “J. C.” Address,

  BLUE HERON, P. O. Box 1121.

For more than a week this advertisement remained in the columns of the
paper, but it was never answered, nor was the book ever claimed.




CHAPTER III

MADAME JOZAIN


Madame Jozain was a creole of mixed French and Spanish ancestry. She
was a tall, thin woman with great, soft black eyes, a nose of the hawk
type, and lips that made a narrow line when closed. In spite of her
forbidding features, the upper part of her face was rather pleasing,
her mild eyes had a gently appealing expression when she lifted them
upward, as she often did, and no one would have believed that the
owner of those innocent, candid eyes could have a sordid, avaricious
nature, unless he glanced at the lower part of her face, which was
decidedly mean and disagreeable. Her nose and mouth had a wily and
ensnaring expression, which was at the same time cruel and rapacious.
Her friends, and she had but few, endowed her with many good qualities,
while her enemies, and they were numerous, declared that she was
but little better than a fiend incarnate; but Father Ducros, her
confessor, knew that she was a combination of good and evil, the evil
largely predominating.

With this strange and complex character, she had but two passions in
life. One was for her worthless son, Adraste, and the other was a keen
desire for the good opinion of those who knew her. She always wished
to be considered something that she was not,—young, handsome, amiable,
pious, and the best _blanchisseuse de fin_ in whatever neighborhood she
hung out her sign.

And perhaps it is not to be wondered at, that she felt a desire to
compensate herself by duplicity for what fate had honestly deprived her
of, for no one living had greater cause to complain of a cruel destiny
than had Madame Jozain. Early in life she had great expectations.
An only child of a well-to-do baker, she inherited quite a little
fortune, and when she married the débonnair and handsome André Jozain,
she intended, by virtue of his renown and her competency, to live
like a lady. He was a politician, and a power in his ward, which
might eventually have led him to some prominence; but instead, this
same agency had conducted him, by dark and devious ways, to life-long
detention in the penitentiary of his State—not, however, until he
had squandered her fortune, and lamed her for life by pushing her
down-stairs in a quarrel. This accident, had it disabled her arms,
might have incapacitated her from becoming a _blanchisseuse de fin_,
which occupation she was obliged to adopt when she found herself
deprived of her husband’s support by the too exacting laws of his
country.

In her times of despondency it was not her husband’s disgrace, her
poverty, her lameness, her undutiful son, her lost illusions, over
which she mourned, as much as it was the utter futility of trying to
make things seem better than they were. In spite of all her painting,
and varnishing, and idealizing, the truth remained horribly apparent:
She was the wife of a convict, she was plain, and old, and lame; she
was poor, miserably poor, and she was but an indifferent _blanchisseuse
de fin_, while Adraste, or Raste, as he was always called, was the
worst boy in the State. If she had ever studied the interesting subject
of heredity, she would have found in Raste the strongest confirmation
in its favor, for he had inherited all his father’s bad qualities in a
greater degree.

On account of Raste’s unsavory reputation and her own incompetency,
she was constantly moving from one neighborhood to another, and, by a
natural descent in the scale of misfortune, at last found herself in a
narrow little street, in the little village of Gretna, one of the most
unlovely suburbs of New Orleans.

The small one-story house she occupied contained but two rooms, and a
shed, which served as a kitchen. It stood close to the narrow sidewalk,
and its green door was reached by two small steps. Madame Jozain,
dressed in a black skirt and a white sack, sat upon these steps in the
evening and gossiped with her neighbor. The house was on the corner
of the street that led to the ferry, and her greatest amusement (for,
on account of her lameness, she could not run with the others to see
the train arrive) was to sit on her doorstep and watch the passengers
walking by on their way to the river.

On this particular hot July evening, she felt very tired, and very
cross. Her affairs had gone badly all day. She had not succeeded with
some lace she had been doing for Madame Joubert, the wife of the
grocer, on the levee, and Madame Joubert had treated her crossly—in
fact had condemned her work, and refused to take it until made up
again; and Madame Jozain needed the money sorely. She had expected
to be paid for the work, but instead of paying her that “little cat
of a Madame Joubert” had fairly insulted her. She, Madame Jozain, née
Bergeron. The Bergerons were better than the Jouberts. _Her_ father had
been one of the City Council, and had died rich, and her husband—well,
her husband had been unfortunate, but he was a gentleman, while the
Jouberts were common and always had been. She would get even with that
proud little fool; she would punish her in some way. Yes, she would do
her lace over, but she would soak it in soda, so that it would drop to
pieces the first time it was worn.

Meantime she was tired and hungry, and she had nothing in the house
but some coffee and cold rice. She had given Raste her last dime, and
he had quarreled with her and gone off to play “craps” with his chums
on the levee. Besides, she was very lonesome, for there was but one
house on her left, and beyond it was a wide stretch of pasture, and
opposite there was nothing but the blank walls of a row of warehouses
belonging to the railroad, and her only neighbor, the occupant of the
next cottage, had gone away to spend a month with a daughter who lived
“down town,” on the other side of the river.

So, as she sat there alone, she looked around her with an expression of
great dissatisfaction, yawning wearily, and wishing that she was not so
lame, so that she could run out to the station, and see what was going
on: and that boy, Raste, she wondered if he was throwing away her last
dime. He often brought a little money home. If he did not bring some
now, they would have no breakfast in the morning.

Then the arriving train whistled, and she straightened up and her face
took on a look of expectancy.

“Not many passengers to-night,” she said to herself, as a few men
hurried by with bags and bundles. “They nearly all go to the lower
ferry, now.”

In a moment they had all passed, and the event of the evening was over.
But no!—and she leaned forward and peered up the street with fresh
curiosity. “Why, here come a lady and a little girl and they’re not
hurrying at all. She’ll lose the ferry if she doesn’t mind. I wonder
what ails her?—she walks as if she couldn’t see.”

Presently the two reached her corner, a lady in mourning, and a little
yellow-haired girl carefully holding a small basket in one hand, while
she clung to her mother’s gown with the other.

Madame Jozain noticed, before the lady reached her, that she tottered
several times, as if about to fall, and put out her hand, as if seeking
for some support. She seemed dizzy and confused, and was passing on
by the corner, when the child said entreatingly, “Stop here a minute,
mama, and rest.”

Then the woman lifted her veil and saw Madame Jozain looking up at her,
her soft eyes full of compassion.

“Will you allow me to rest here a moment? I’m ill and a little
faint,—perhaps you will give me a glass of water?”

“Why, certainly, my dear,” said madame, getting up alertly, in spite
of her lameness. “Come in and sit down in my rocking-chair. You’re too
late for the ferry. It’ll be gone before you get there, and you may as
well be comfortable while you wait—come right in.”

The exhausted woman entered willingly. The room was neat and cool,
and a large white bed, which was beautifully clean, for madame prided
herself upon it, looked very inviting.

The mother sank into a chair, and dropped her head on the bed; the
child set down the basket and clung to her mother caressingly, while
she looked around with timid, anxious eyes.

Madame Jozain hobbled off for a glass of water and a bottle of
ammonia, which she kept for her laces; then, with gentle, deft hands,
she removed the bonnet and heavy veil, and bathed the poor woman’s
hot forehead and burning hands, while the child clung to her mother
murmuring, “Mama, dear mama, does your head ache now?”

“I’m better now, darling,” the mother replied after a few moments;
then turning to madame, she said in her sweet, soft tones, “Thank you
so much. I feel quite refreshed. The heat and fatigue exhausted my
strength. I should have fallen in the street had it not been for you.”

“Have you traveled far?” asked madame, gently sympathetic.

“From San Antonio, and I was ill when I started”; and again she closed
her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the chair.

At the first glance, madame understood the situation. She saw from
the appearance of mother and child, that they were not poor. In this
accidental encounter was a possible opportunity, but how far she could
use it she could not yet determine; so she said only, “That’s a long
way to come alone”; then she added, in a casual tone, “especially when
one’s ill.”

The lady did not reply, and madame went on tentatively, “Perhaps some
one’s waiting for you on the other side, and’ll come back on the ferry
to see what’s become of you.”

“No. No one expects me; I’m on my way to New York. I have a friend
living on Jackson Street. I thought I would go there and rest a day or
so; but I did wrong to get off the train here. I was not able to walk
to the ferry. I should have gone on to the lower station, and saved
myself the exertion of walking.”

“Well, don’t mind now, dear,” returned madame, soothingly. “Just rest
a little, and when it’s time for the boat to be back, I’ll go on down
to the ferry with you. It’s only a few steps, and I can hobble that
far. I’ll see you safe on board, and when you get across, you’ll find a
carriage.”

“Thank you, you’re very good. I should like to get there as soon as
possible, for I feel dreadfully ill,” and again the weary eyes closed,
and the heavy head fell back against its resting-place.

Madame Jozain looked at her for a moment, seriously and silently; then
she turned, smiling sweetly on the child. “Come here, my dear, and let
me take off your hat and cool your head while you’re waiting.”

“No, thank you, I’m going with mama.”

“Oh, yes, certainly; but won’t you tell me your name?”

“My name is Lady Jane,” she replied gravely.

“Lady Jane? Well, I declare, that just suits you, for you are a little
lady, and no mistake. Aren’t you tired, and warm?”

“I’m very hungry; I want my supper,” said the child frankly.

Madame winced, remembering her empty cupboard, but went on chatting
cheerfully to pass away the time.

Presently the whistle of the approaching ferryboat sounded; the mother
put on her bonnet, and the child took the bag in one hand, and the
basket in the other. “Come, mama, let us go,” she cried eagerly.

“Dear, dear,” said madame, solicitously, “but you look so white and
sick. I’m afraid you can’t get to the ferry even with me to help you. I
wish my Raste was here; he’s so strong, he could carry you if you gave
out.”

“I think I can walk; I’ll try,” and the poor woman staggered to her
feet, only to fall back into Madame Jozain’s arms in a dead faint.




CHAPTER IV

AN INTERRUPTED JOURNEY


For a moment, madame debated on what was best to be done; then, finding
herself equal to the emergency, she gently laid the unconscious woman
on the bed, unfastened her dress, and slowly and softly removed her
clothing. Although madame was lame, she was very strong, and in a few
moments the sufferer was resting between the clean, cool sheets, while
her child clung to her cold hands and sobbed piteously.

“Don’t cry, my little dear, don’t cry. Help me to bathe your mama’s
face; help me like a good child, and she’ll be better soon, now she’s
comfortable and can rest.”

With the thought that she could be of some assistance, Lady Jane
struggled bravely to swallow her sobs, took off her hat with womanly
gravity, and prepared herself to assist as nurse.

“Here’s smelling salts, and cologne-water,” she said, opening her
mother’s bag. “Mama likes this; let me wet her handkerchief.”

Madame Jozain, watching the child’s movements, caught a glimpse of the
silver fittings of the bag, and of a bulging pocket-book within it,
and, while the little girl was hanging over her mother, she quietly
removed the valuables to the drawer of her _armoire_, which she locked,
and put the key in her bosom.

“I must keep these things away from Raste,” she said to herself; “he’s
so thoughtless and impulsive, he might take them without considering
the consequences.”

For some time madame bent over the stranger, using every remedy she
knew to restore her to consciousness, while the child assisted her with
thoughtfulness and self-control, really surprising in one of her age.
Sometimes her hot tears fell on her mother’s white face, but no sob
or cry escaped her little quivering lips, while she bathed the pale
forehead, smoothed the beautiful hair, and rubbed the soft, cold hands.

At length, with a shiver and a convulsive groan, the mother partly
opened her eyes, but there was no recognition in their dull gaze.

“Mama, dear, dear mama, are you better?” implored the child, as she
hung over her and kissed her passionately.

“You see she’s opened her eyes, so she must be better; but she’s
sleepy,” said madame gently. “Now, my little dear, all she needs is
rest, and you mustn’t disturb her. You must be very quiet, and let her
sleep. Here’s some nice, fresh milk the milkman has just brought. Won’t
you eat some rice and milk, and then let me take off your clothes,
and bathe you, and you can slip on your little nightgown that’s in
your mother’s bag; and then you can lie down beside her and sleep till
morning, and in the morning you’ll both be well and nicely rested.”

Lady Jane agreed to madame’s arrangements with perfect docility, but
she would not leave her mother, who had fallen into a heavy stupor, and
appeared to be resting comfortably.

“If you’ll please to let me sit by the bed close to mama and eat the
rice and milk, I’ll take it, for I’m very hungry.”

“Certainly, my dear; you can sit there and hold her hand all the time;
I’ll put your supper on this little table close by you.”

And madame bustled about, apparently overflowing with kindly
attentions. She watched the child eat the rice and milk, smiling
benevolently the while; then she bathed her, and put on the fine little
nightgown, braided the thick silken hair, and was about to lift her up
beside her mother, when Lady Jane exclaimed in a shocked voice:

“You mustn’t put me to bed yet; I haven’t said my prayers.” Her large
eyes were full of solemn reproach as she slipped from madame’s arms
down to the side of the bed. “Mama can’t hear them, because she’s
asleep, but God can, for _he_ never sleeps.” Then she repeated the
touching little formula that all pious mothers teach their children,
adding fervently several times, “and please make dear mama well, so
that we can leave this place early to-morrow morning.”

Madame smiled grimly at the last clause of the petition, and a great
many curious thoughts whirled through her brain.

As the child rose from her knees her eyes fell on the basket containing
the blue heron, which stood quite neglected, just where she placed it
when her mother fainted.

“Oh, oh!” she cried, springing toward it. “Why, I forgot it! My Tony,
my dear Tony!”

“What is it?” asked madame, starting back in surprise at the rustling
sound within the basket. “Why, it’s something alive!”

“Yes, it’s alive,” said Lady Jane, with a faint smile. “It’s a bird, a
blue heron. Such a nice boy gave it to me on the cars.”

“Ah,” ejaculated madame, “a boy gave it to you; some one you knew?”

“No, I never saw him before.”

“Don’t you know his name?”

“That’s funny,” and the child laughed softly to herself. “No, I don’t
know his name. I never thought to ask; besides he was a stranger, and
it wouldn’t have been polite, you know.”

“No, it wouldn’t have been polite,” repeated madame. “But what are you
going to do with this long-legged thing?”

“It’s not a _thing_. It’s a blue heron, and they’re very rare,”
returned the child stoutly.

She had untied the cover and taken the bird out of the basket, and now
stood in her nightgown and little bare feet, holding it in her arms,
and stroking the feathers softly, while she glanced every moment toward
the bed.

“I’m sure I don’t know what to do with him to-night. I know he’s hungry
and thirsty, and I’m afraid to let him out for fear he’ll get away”;
and she raised her little anxious face to madame inquiringly, for she
felt overburdened with her numerous responsibilities.

“Oh, I know what we’ll do with him,” said madame, alertly—she was
prepared for every emergency. “I’ve a fine large cage. It was my
parrot’s cage; he was too clever to live, so he died a while ago, and
his empty cage is hanging in the kitchen. I’ll get it, and you can put
your bird in it for to-night, and we’ll feed him and give him water;
he’ll be quite safe, so you needn’t worry about him.”

“Thank you very much,” said Lady Jane, with more politeness than
warmth. “My mama will thank you, too, when she wakes.”

After seeing Tony safely put in the cage, with a saucer of rice for his
supper, and a cup of water to wash it down, Lady Jane climbed up on the
high bed, and not daring to kiss her mother good-night lest she might
disturb her, she nestled close to her. Worn out with fatigue, she was
soon sleeping soundly and peacefully.

For some time Madame Jozain sat by the bed, watching the sick stranger,
and wondering who she was, and whether her sudden illness was likely
to be long and serious. “If I could keep her here, and nurse her,”
she thought, “no doubt she would pay me well. I’d rather nurse than
do lace; and if she’s very bad she’d better not be moved. I’d take
good care of her, and make her comfortable; and if she’s no friends
about here to look after her, she’d be better off with me than in the
hospital. Yes, it would be cruel to send her to the hospital. Ladies
don’t like to go there. It looks to me as if she’s going to have a
fever,” and madame laid her fingers on the burning hand and fluttering
pulse of the sleeper. “This isn’t healthy, natural sleep. I’ve nursed
too many with fever, not to know. I doubt if she’ll come to her senses
again. If she doesn’t no one will ever know who she is, and I may as
well have the benefit of nursing her as any one else; but I must be
careful, I mustn’t let her lie here and die without a doctor. That
would never do. If she’s not better in the morning I’ll send for Doctor
Debrot; I know he’ll be glad to come, for he never has any practice to
speak of now, he’s so old and stupid; he’s a good doctor, and I’d feel
safe to have him.”

After a while she got up and went out on the doorstep to wait for
Raste. The night was very quiet, a fresh breeze cooled the burning
heat, the stars shone brightly and softly, and as she sat there alone
and lifted her mild eyes toward the sky no one would have dreamed of
the strange thoughts that were passing through her mind. Now she was
neither hungry nor lonesome; a sudden excitement thrilled her through
and through. She was about to engage in a project that might compensate
her for all her misfortunes. The glimpse she had of money, of
valuables, of possible gain, awakened all her cupidity. The only thing
she cared for now was money. She hated work, she hated to be at the
beck and call of those she considered beneath her. What a gratification
it would be to her to refuse to do Madame Joubert’s lace, to fling it
at her, and tell her to take it elsewhere! With a little ready money,
she could be so independent and so comfortable. Raste had a knack of
getting together a great deal in one way and another. He was lucky; if
he had a little to begin with he could, perhaps, make a fortune. Then
she started, and looked around as one might who suddenly found himself
on the brink of an awful chasm. From within she heard the sick stranger
moan and toss restlessly; then, in a moment, all was quiet again.
Presently, she began to debate in her mind how far she should admit
Raste to her confidence. Should she let him know about the money and
valuables she had hidden? The key in her bosom seemed to burn like a
coal of fire. No, she would not tell him about the money. While taking
the child’s nightgown from the bag, she had discovered the railroad
tickets, two baggage checks, and a roll of notes and loose change in
a little compartment of the bag. He would think that was all; and she
would never tell him of the other.

At that moment, she heard him coming down the street, singing a
rollicking song. So she got up, and hobbled toward him, for she feared
he might waken the sleepers. He was a great overgrown, red-faced,
black-eyed fellow, coarse and strong, with a loud, dashing kind of
beauty, and he was very observing, and very shrewd. She often said
he had all his father’s cunning and penetration, therefore she must
disguise her plans carefully.

“Hallo, mum,” he said, as he saw her limping toward him, her manner
eager, her face rather pale and excited; “what’s up now?” It was
unusual for her to meet him in that way.

“Hush, hush, Raste. Don’t make a noise. Such a strange thing has
happened since you went out!” said madame, in a low voice. “Sit down
here on the steps, and I’ll tell you.”

Then briefly, and without much show of interest, she told him of the
arrival of the strangers, and of the young woman’s sudden illness.

“And they’re in there asleep,” he said, pointing with his thumb in the
direction of the room.

“That’s a fine thing for you to do—to saddle yourself with a sick woman
and a child.”

“What could I do?” asked madame indignantly. “You wouldn’t have me turn
a fainting woman into the street? It won’t cost anything for her to
sleep in my bed to-night.”

“What is she like? Is she one of the poor sort? Did you look over her
traps? Has she got any money?” he asked eagerly.

“Oh, Raste, Raste; as if I searched her pockets! She’s beautifully
dressed, and so is the child. She’s got a fine watch and chain, and
when I opened her bag to get the child’s nightgown, I saw that it was
fitted up with silver.”

“What luck!” exclaimed Raste brightly. “Then she’s a swell, and
to-morrow when she goes away she’ll give you as much as a ‘fiver.’”

“I don’t believe she’ll be able to go to-morrow. I think she’s down for
a long sickness. If she’s no better in the morning, I want you to cross
and find Dr. Debrot”

“Old Debrot? That’s fun! Why, he’s no good—he’ll kill her.”

“Nonsense; you know he’s one of the best doctors in the city.”

“Sometimes, yes. But you can’t keep the woman here, if she’s sick;
you’ll have to send her to the hospital. And you didn’t find out her
name, nor where she belongs? Suppose she dies on your hands? What then?”

“If I take care of her and she dies, I can’t help it; and I may as well
have her things as any one else.”

“But has she got anything worth having? Enough to pay you for trouble
and expense?” he asked. Then he whistled softly, and added, “Oh, mum,
you’re a deep one, but I see through you.”

“I don’t know what you mean, boy,” said madame, indignantly. “Of
course, if I nurse the woman, and give up my bed to her, I expect to be
paid. I hate to send her to the hospital, and I don’t know her name,
nor the name of her friends. So what can I do?”

“Do just what you’ve planned to do, mum. Go right ahead, but be careful
and cover up your tracks. Do you understand?”

Madame made no reply to this disinterested piece of advice, but sat
silently thinking for some time. At last she said in a persuasive tone,
“Didn’t you bring some money from the levee? I’ve had no supper, and
I intend to sit up all night with that poor woman. Can’t you go to
Joubert’s and get me some bread and cheese?”

“Money, money—look here!” and the young scapegrace pulled out a handful
of silver. “That’s what I’ve brought.”

An hour later madame and Raste sat in the little kitchen, chatting over
their supper in the most friendly way; while the sick woman and the
child still slept profoundly in the small front room.




CHAPTER V

LAST DAYS AT GRETNA


The next morning, Madame Jozain sent Raste across the river for Dr.
Debrot, for the sick woman still lay in a heavy stupor, her dull eyes
partly closed, her lips parched and dry, and the crimson flush of fever
burning on cheek and brow.

Before Raste went, Madame Jozain took the traveling bag into the
kitchen, and together they examined its contents. There were the two
baggage-checks, the tickets and money, besides the usual articles of
clothing, and odds and ends; but there was no letter, nor card, nor
name, except the monogram, _J. C._, on the silver fittings, to assist
in establishing the stranger’s identity.

“Hadn’t I better take these,” said Raste, slipping the baggage-checks
into his pocket, “and have her baggage sent over? When she comes to,
you can tell her that she and the young one needed clothes, and you
thought it was best to get them. You can make that all right when she
gets well,” and Raste smiled knowingly at madame, whose face wore an
expression of grave solicitude as she said:

“Hurry, my son, and bring the doctor back with you. I’m so anxious
about the poor thing, and I dread to have the child wake and find her
mother no better.”

When Doctor Debrot entered Madame Jozain’s front room, his head was
not as clear as it ought to have been, and he did not observe anything
peculiar in the situation. He had known madame, more or less, for a
number of years, and he might be considered one of the friends who
thought well of her. Therefore, he never suspected that the young woman
lying there in a stupor was any other than the relative from Texas
madame represented her to be. And she was very ill, of that there
could be no doubt; so ill as to awaken all the doctor’s long dormant
professional ambition. There were new features in the case; the fever
was peculiar. It might have been produced by certain conditions and
localities. It might be contagious, it might not be, he could not say;
but of one thing he was certain, there would be no protracted struggle,
the crisis would arrive very soon. She would either be better or
beyond help in a few days, and it was more than likely that she would
never recover consciousness. He would do all he could to save her, and
he knew Madame Jozain was an excellent nurse; she had nursed with him
through an epidemic. The invalid could not be in better hands. Then
he wrote a prescription, and while he was giving madame some general
directions, he patted kindly the golden head of the lovely child, who
leaned over the bed with her large, solemn eyes fixed on her mother’s
face, while her little hands caressed the tangled hair and burning
cheeks.

“Her child?” he asked, looking sadly at the little creature.

“Yes, the only one. She takes it hard. I really don’t know what to do
with her.”

“Poor lamb, poor lamb!” he muttered, as madame hurried him to the door.

Shortly after the doctor left, there was a little ripple of excitement,
which entered even into the sick-room—the sound of wheels, and Raste
giving orders in a subdued voice, while two large, handsome trunks
were brought in and placed in the corner of the back apartment. These
two immense boxes looked strangely out of place amid their humble
surroundings; and when madame looked at them she almost trembled,
thinking of the difficulty of getting rid of such witnesses should a
day of reckoning ever come. When the little green door closed on them,
it seemed as if the small house had swallowed up every trace of the
mother and child, and that their identity was lost forever.

For several days the doctor continued his visits, in a more or less
lucid condition, and every day he departed with a more dejected
expression on his haggard face. He saw almost from the first that the
case was hopeless; and his heart (for he still had one) ached for the
child, whose wide eyes seemed to haunt him with their intense misery.
Every day he saw her sitting by her mother’s side, pale and quiet,
with such a pitiful look of age on her little face, such repressed
suffering in every line and expression as she watched him for some
gleam of hope, that the thought of it tortured him and forced him to
affect a cheerfulness and confidence which he did not feel. But, in
spite of every effort to deceive her, she was not comforted. She seemed
to see deeper than the surface. Her mother had never recognized her,
never spoken to her, since that dreadful night, and, in one respect,
she seemed already dead to her. Sometimes she seemed unable to control
herself, and would break out into sharp, passionate cries, and implore
her mother, with kisses and caresses, to speak to her—to her darling,
her baby. “Wake up, mama, wake up! It’s Lady Jane! It’s darling! Oh,
mama, wake up and speak to me!” she would cry almost fiercely.

Then, when madame would tell her that she must be quiet, or her
mother would never get well, it was touching to witness her efforts
at self-control. She would sit for hours silent and passive, with her
mother’s hand clasped in hers, and her lips pressed to the feeble
fingers that had no power to return her tender caress.

Whatever was good in Madame Jozain showed itself in compassion for
the suffering little one, and no one could have been more faithful
than she in her care of both the mother and child; she felt such pity
for them, that she soon began to think she was acting in a noble
and disinterested spirit by keeping them with her, and nursing the
unfortunate mother so faithfully. She even began to identify herself
with them; they were hers by virtue of their friendlessness; they
belonged to no one else, therefore they belonged to her; and, in her
self-satisfaction, she imagined that she was not influenced by any
unworthy motive in her treatment of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

One day, only a little more than a week after the arrival of the
strangers, a modest funeral wended its way through the narrow streets
of Gretna toward the ferry, and the passers stopped to stare at Adraste
Jozain, dressed in his best suit, sitting with much dignity beside Dr.
Debrot in the only carriage that followed the hearse.

“It’s a stranger, a relative of Madame Jozain,” said one who knew. “She
came from Texas with her little girl, less than two weeks ago, and
yesterday she died, and last night the child was taken down with the
same fever, and they say she’s unconscious to-day, so madame couldn’t
leave her to go to the funeral. No one will go to the house, because
that old doctor from the other side says it may be catching.”

That day the Bergeron tomb in the old St. Louis cemetery was opened for
the first time since Madame Jozain’s father was placed there, and the
lovely young widow was laid amongst those who were neither kith nor kin.

When Raste returned from the funeral, he found his mother sitting
beside the child, who lay in the same heavy stupor that marked the
first days of the mother’s illness. The pretty golden hair was spread
over the pillow; under the dark lashes were deep violet shadows, and
the little cheeks glowed with the crimson hue of fever.

Madame was dressed in her best black gown, and she had been weeping
freely. At the sight of Raste in the door, she started up and burst
into heart-breaking sobs.

“Oh, _mon cher_, oh, _mon ami_, we are doomed. Was ever any one so
unfortunate? Was ever any one so punished for a good deed? I’ve taken
a sick stranger into my house, and nursed her as if she were my own,
and buried her in my family tomb, and now the child’s taken down, and
Doctor Debrot says it is a contagious fever, and we may both take it
and die. That’s what one gets in this world for trying to do good!”

“Nonsense, mum, don’t look on the dark side; old Debrot don’t know. I’m
the one that gave it out that the fever was catching. I didn’t want to
have people prying about here, finding out everything. The child’ll
be better or worse in a few days, and then we’ll clear out from this
place, raise some money on the things, and start fresh somewhere else.”

“Well,” said madame, wiping away her tears, much comforted by Raste’s
cheerful view of the situation, “no one can say that I haven’t done my
duty to the poor thing, and I mean to be kind to the child, and nurse
her through the fever whether it’s catching or not. It’s hard to be
tied to a sick bed this hot weather; but I’m almost thankful the little
thing’s taken down, and isn’t conscious, for it was dreadful to see
the way she mourned for her mother. Poor woman, she was so young and
pretty, and had such gentle ways. I wish I knew who she was, especially
now I’ve put her in the Bergeron tomb.”




CHAPTER VI

PEPSIE


Every one about that part of Good Children Street knew Pepsie. She
had been a cripple from infancy, and her mother, Madelon, or “Bonnie
Praline,” as she was called, was also quite a noted figure in the
neighborhood. They lived in a tiny, single cottage, wedged in between
the pharmacist, on the corner, and M. Fernandez, the tobacconist, on
the other side. There was a narrow green door, and one long window,
with an ornamental iron railing across it, through which the interior
of the little room was visible from the outside. It was a very neat
little place, and less ugly than one would expect it to be. A huge
four-post bed, with red tester and lace-covered pillows, almost filled
one side of the room; opposite the bed a small fireplace was hung
with pink paper, and the mantel over it was decorated with a clock,
two vases of bright paper flowers, a blue bottle, and a green plaster
parrot; a small _armoire_, a table above which hung a crucifix and
a highly colored lithograph of the Bleeding Heart, and a few chairs
completed the furniture of the quaint little interior; while the floor,
the doorsteps, and even the sidewalk were painted red with powdered
brick-dust, which harmonized very well with the faded yellow stucco of
the walls and the dingy green of the door and batten shutter.

Behind this one little front room was a tiny kitchen and yard,
where Madelon made her pralines and cakes, and where Tite Souris, a
half-grown darky, instead of a “little mouse,” washed, cooked, and
scrubbed, and “waited on Miss Peps” during Madelon’s absence; for
Madelon was a merchant. She had a stand for cakes and pralines upon
Bourbon Street, near the French Opera House, and thither she went every
morning, with her basket and pans of fresh pralines, sugared pecans,
and calas tout chaud, a very tempting array of dainties, which she was
sure to dispose of before she returned at night; while Pepsie, her only
child, and the treasure of her life, remained at home, sitting in her
high chair by the window, behind the iron railing.

And Pepsie sitting at her window was as much a part of the street as
were the queer little houses, the tiny shops, the old vegetable woman,
the cobbler on the _banquette_, the wine merchant, or the grocer. Every
one knew her: her long, sallow face with flashing dark eyes, wide
mouth with large white teeth, which were always visible in a broad
smile, and the shock of heavy black hair twisted into a quaint knot
on top of her head, which was abnormally large, and set close to the
narrow, distorted shoulders, were always visible, “from early morn
till dewy eve,” at the window; while her body below the shoulders was
quite hidden by a high table drawn forward over her lap. On this table
Pepsie shelled the pecans, placing them in three separate piles, the
perfect halves in one pile, those broken by accident in another, and
those slightly shriveled, and a little rancid, in still another. The
first were used to make the sugared pecans for which Madelon was justly
famous; the second to manufacture into pralines, so good that they
had given her the sobriquet of “Bonne Praline”; and the third pile,
which she disdained to use in her business, nothing imperfect ever
entering into her concoctions, were swept into a box, and disposed of
to merchants who had less principle and less patronage.

All day long Pepsie sat her window, wielding her little iron
nutcracker with much dexterity. While the beautiful clean halves fell
nearly always unbroken on their especial pile, she saw everything that
went on in the street, her bright eyes flashed glances of recognition
up and down, her broad smile greeted in cordial welcome those who
stopped at her window to chat, and there was nearly always some one
at Pepsie’s window. She was so happy, so bright, and so amiable that
every one loved her, and she was the idol of all the children in the
neighborhood—not, however, because she was liberal with pecans. Oh, no;
with Pepsie, business was business, and pecans cost money, and every
ten sugared pecans meant a nickel for her mother; but they loved to
stand around the window, outside the iron railing, and watch Pepsie
at her work. They liked to see her with her pile of nuts and bowl of
foaming sugar before her. It seemed like magic, the way she would
sugar them, and stick them together, and spread them out to dry on the
clean white paper. She did it so rapidly that her long white fingers
fairly flashed between the bowl of sugar, the pile of nuts, and the
paper. And there always seemed just enough of each, therefore her just
discrimination was a constant wonder.

When she finished her task, as she often did before dark, Tite Souris
took away the bowl and the tray of sugared nuts, after Pepsie had
counted them and put the number down in a little book, as much to
protect herself against Tite Souris’s depredations as to know the exact
amount of their stock in trade; then she would open the little drawer
in the table, and take out a prayer-book, a piece of needlework, and a
pack of cards.

She was very pious, and read her prayers several times a day; after
she put her prayer-book aside she usually devoted some time to her
needlework, for which she had real talent; then, when she thought
she had earned her recreation, she put away her work, spread out her
cards, and indulged in an intricate game of solitaire. This was her
passion; she was very systematic, and very conscientious; but if she
ever purloined any time from her duties, it was that she might engage
in that fascinating game. She decided everything by it; whatever she
wished to know, two games out of three would give her the answer, for
or against.

Sometimes she looked like a little witch during a wicked incantation,
as she hovered over the rows of cards, her face dark and brooding, her
long, thin fingers darting here and there, silent, absorbed, almost
breathless under the fatal spell of chance.

In this way she passed day after day, always industrious, always
contented, and always happy. She was very comfortable in her snug
little room, which was warm in winter and cool in summer, owing to the
two high buildings adjoining; and although she was a cripple, and her
lower limbs useless, she suffered little pain, unless she was moved
roughly, or jarred in some way; and no one could be more carefully
protected from discomfort than she was, for although she was over
twelve, Madelon still treated her as if she were a baby. Every morning,
before she left for the Rue Bourbon, she bathed and dressed the girl,
and lifted her tenderly, with her strong arms, into her wheeled chair,
where she drank her coffee, and ate her roll, as dainty as a little
princess, for she was always exquisitely clean. In the summer she wore
pretty little white sacks, with a bright bow of ribbon at the neck, and
in winter her shrunken figure was clothed in warm, soft woolen.

Madelon did not sit out all day in rain and shine on Bourbon Street,
and make cakes and pralines half the night, for anything else but
to provide this crippled mite with every comfort. As I said before,
the girl was her idol, and she had toiled day and night to gratify
her every wish; and, as far as she knew, there was but one desire
unsatisfied, and for the accomplishment of that she was working and
saving little by little.

Once Pepsie had said that she would like to live in the country. All
she knew of the country was what she had read in books, and what her
mother, who had once seen the country, had told her. Often she closed
her eyes to shut out the hot, narrow street, and thought of green
valleys, with rivers running through them, and hills almost touching
the sky, and broad fields shaded by great trees, and covered with
waving grass and flowers. That was her one unrealized ideal,—her
“Carcassonne,” which she feared she was never to reach, except in
imagination.




CHAPTER VII

THE ARRIVAL


On the other side of Good Children Street, and almost directly opposite
Madelon’s tiny cottage, was a double house of more pretentious
appearance than those just around it. It was a little higher, the door
was wider, and a good-sized window on each side had a small balcony,
more for ornament than use, as it was scarcely wide enough to stand on.
The roof projected well over the sidewalk, and there was some attempt
at ornamentation in the brackets that supported it. At one side was a
narrow yard with a stunted fig-tree, and a ragged rose-bush straggled
up the posts of a small side-gallery.

This house had been closed for some time. The former tenant having
died, his family, who were respectable, pleasant people, were obliged
to leave it, much to Pepsie’s sorrow, for she was always interested in
her neighbors, and she had taken a great deal of pleasure in observing
the ways of this household. Therefore she was very tired of looking
at the closed doors and windows, and was constantly wishing that some
one would take it. At last, greatly to her gratification, one pleasant
morning, late in August, a middle-aged woman, very well dressed in
black, who was lame and walked with a stick, a young man, and a lovely
little girl, appeared on the scene, stopped before the empty house, and
after looking at it with much interest mounted the steps, unlocked the
door, and entered.

The child interested Pepsie at once. Although she had seen very few
high-bred children in her short life, she noticed that this little
one was different from the small inhabitants of Good Children Street.
Her white frock, black sash, and wide black hat had a certain grace
uncommon in that quarter, and every movement and step had an elegant
ease, very unlike the good-natured little creoles who played around
Pepsie’s window.

However, it was not only the child’s beauty, her tasteful, pretty
dress, and high-bred air that interested Pepsie; it was the pale,
mournful little face, and the frail little figure, looking so wan and
ill. The woman held her by the hand, and she walked very slowly and
feebly; the robust, black-eyed young man carried a small basket, which
the child watched constantly.

Pepsie could not remove her eyes from the house, so anxious was she to
see the child again; but, instead of coming out, as she expected they
would after they had looked at the house, much to her joy she saw the
young man flinging open the shutters and doors, with quite an air of
ownership; then she saw the woman take off her bonnet and veil, and
the child’s hat, and hang them on a hook near the window. Presently,
the little girl came out on the small side-gallery with something in
her arms. Pepsie strained her eyes, and leaned forward as far as her
lameness would allow her in order to see what the child had.

“It’s a cat; no, it’s a dog; no, it isn’t. Why, it must be a
bird. I can see it flutter its wings. Yes, it’s a bird, a large,
strange-looking bird. I wonder what it is!” And Pepsie, in her
excitement and undue curiosity, almost tipped out of her chair, while
the child looked around her with a listless, uninterested air, and
then sat down on the steps, hugging the bird closely and stroking its
feathers.

“Certainly, they’ve come to stay,” said Pepsie to herself, “or they
wouldn’t open all the windows, and take off their things. Oh, I wonder
if they have; I’ll just get my cards, and find out.”

But Pepsie’s oracle was doomed to remain silent, for, before she got
them spread on the table, there was a rumbling of wheels in the street,
and a furniture-wagon, pretty well loaded, drove up to the door. Pepsie
swept her cards into the drawer, and watched it unload with great
satisfaction.

At the same moment, the active Tite Souris entered like a whirlwind,
her braids of wool sticking up, and her face all eyes and teeth. She
had been out on the _banquette_, and was bursting with news.

“Oh, Miss Peps’, Miss Peps’, sum un’s done tuk dat house ov’ yon’er,
an’ is a-movin’ in dis ver’ minit. It’s a woman an’ a boy, an’ a littl’
yaller gal. I means a littl’ gal wid yaller ha’r all ove’ her, an’ she
got a littl’ long-legged goslin’, a-huggin’ it up like she awful fond
uv it.”

“Oh, stop, Tite; go away to your work,” cried Pepsie, too busy to
listen to her voluble handmaid. “Don’t I see them without your telling
me? You’d better finish scouring your kitchen, or mama’ll get after you
when she comes home.”

“Shore ’nuff, I’se a-scourin’, Miss Peps’, an’ I’se jes a dyin tu git
out on dat _banquette;_ dat _banquette’s_ a-spilin’ might’ bad ter be
cleaned. Let me do dat _banquette_ right now, Miss Peps’, an’ I’s gwine
scour lak fury bymeby.”

“Very well, Tite; go and do the _banquette_,” returned Pepsie, smiling
indulgently. “But mind what I say about the kitchen, when mama comes.”

Such an event as some one moving in Good Children Street was very
uncommon. Pepsie thought every one had lived there since the flood,
and she didn’t blame Tite Souris to want to be out with the other
idle loungers to see what was going on, although she understood the
_banquette_ ruse perfectly.

At last all the furniture was carried in, and with it two trunks, so
large for that quarter as to cause no little comment.

“_Par exemple!_” said Monsieur Fernandez, “what a size for a trunk!
That madame yonder must have traveled much in the North. I’ve heard
they use them there for ladies’ toilets.”

And, straightway, madame acquired greater importance from the
conclusion that she had traveled extensively.

Then the wagon went away, the door was discreetly “bowed,” and the
loungers dispersed; but Pepsie, from her coign of vantage, still
watched every movement of the new-comers. She saw Raste come out with
a basket, and she was sure that he had gone to market. She saw madame
putting up a pretty lace curtain at one window, and she was curious to
know if she intended to have a parlor. Only one blind was thrown open;
the other was “bowed” all day, yet she was positive that some one was
working behind it. “That must be madame’s room,” she thought; “that
big boy will have the back room next to the kitchen, and the little
girl will sleep with madame, so the room on this side, with the pretty
curtain, will be the parlor. I wonder if she will have a carpet, and a
console, with vases of wax-flowers on it, and a cabinet full of shells,
and a sofa.” This was Pepsie’s idea of a parlor; she had seen a parlor
once long ago, and it was like this.

So she wondered and speculated all day; and all day the pale, sorrowful
child sat alone on the side-gallery, holding her bird in her arms; and
when night came, Pepsie had not sugared her pecans, neither had she
read her prayers, nor even played one game of solitaire; but Madelon
did not complain of her idleness. It was seldom the child had such a
treat, and even Tite Souris escaped a scolding, in consideration of the
great event.

The next morning Pepsie was awake very early, and so anxious was she to
get to the window that she could hardly wait to be dressed. When she
first looked across the street, the doors and shutters were closed,
but some one had been stirring; and Tite Souris informed her, when
she brought her coffee, that madame had been out at “sun up,” and had
cleaned and “bricked” the _banquette_ her own self.

“Then I’m afraid she isn’t rich,” said Pepsie, “because if she was
rich, she’d keep a servant, and perhaps after all she won’t have a
parlor.”

Presently there was a little flutter behind the bowed blind, and lo!
it was suddenly flung open, and there, right in the middle of the
window, hung a very tasty gilt frame, surrounding a white center, on
which was printed, in red and gilt letters, “_Blanchisseuse de fin,
et confections de toute sorte_,” and underneath, written in Raste’s
boldest hand and best English, “Fin Washun dun hear, an notuns of
al sort,” and behind the sign Pepsie could plainly see a flutter of
laces and muslins, children’s dainty little frocks and aprons, ladies’
collars, cuffs, and neckties, handkerchiefs and sacks, and various
other articles for feminine use and adornment; and on a table, close
to the window, were boxes of spools, bunches of tape, cards of buttons,
skeins of wool, rolls of ribbons; in short, an assortment of small
wares, which presented quite an attractive appearance; and, hovering
about them, madame could be discerned, in her black skirt and fresh
white sack, while, as smiling and self-satisfied as ever, she arranged
her stock to the best advantage, and waited complacently for the
customers who she was sure would come.

For the first time since the death of the young widow in Gretna,
she breathed freely, for she began to feel some security in her new
possessions. At last, everything had turned out as Raste predicted,
and she had worked her plans well. The young mother, sleeping in the
Bergeron tomb, could never testify against her, and the child was too
young to give any but the most sketchy information about herself. She
did not even know the name of her parents, and since her recovery from
the fever she seemed to have forgotten a great deal that she knew
before. Her illness had left her in a pitiable condition; she was weak
and dull, and did not appear to care for anything but the blue heron,
which was her constant companion. Whether she was conscious of her
great loss, and was mourning for her mother, madame could not decide.
At first, she had asked constantly for her, and madame had told her
kindly, and with caresses, which were not returned, that her mother had
gone away for a while, and had left her with her Tante Pauline; and
that she must be a good little girl, and love her Tante Pauline, while
her mother was away.

Lady Jane looked at madame’s bland face with such solemnly scrutinizing
eyes, that she almost made her blush for the falsehood she was telling,
but said nothing; her little thoughts and memories were very busy, and
very far away; she had not forgotten as much as madame fancied she had,
neither did she believe as much as madame thought she did. Whatever of
doubt or regret passed through her little brain, she made no sign, but
remained quiet and docile; she never laughed, and seldom cried; she
was very little trouble, and scarcely noticed anything that was going
on around her. In fact, she was stupefied and subdued, by the sudden
misfortunes that had come upon her, until she seemed a very different
being from the bright, spirited child of a few weeks before.




CHAPTER VIII

LADY JANE FINDS A FRIEND


From the first, madame had insisted that the stranger’s property should
not be meddled with until a certain time had passed.

“We must wait,” she said to the eager and impulsive Raste, “to see if
she is missed, and advertised for. A person of her position must have
friends somewhere, and it would be rather bad for us if she was traced
here, and it was found out that she died in our house; we might even be
suspected of killing her to get her money. Detectives are capable of
anything, and it isn’t best to get in their clutches; but if we don’t
touch her things, they can’t accuse us, and Dr. Debrot knows she died
of fever, so I would be considered a kind-hearted Christian woman, and
I’d be paid well for all my trouble, if it should come out that she
died here.”

These arguments had their weight with Raste, who, though thoroughly
unscrupulous, was careful about getting into the toils of the law,
his father’s fate serving as an example to him of the difficulty of
escaping from those toils when they once close upon a victim.

If at that time they had noticed the advertisement in the journals
signed “Blue Heron” it would have given them a terrible fright; but
they seldom read the papers, and before they thought of looking for a
notice of the missing woman and child, it had been withdrawn.

For several weeks Raste went regular to the grocery on the levee, and
searched over the daily papers until his eyes ached; but in vain; among
all the singular advertisements and “personals,” there was nothing that
referred in any way to the subject that interested him.

Therefore, after some six weeks had passed, madame deemed that it was
safe to begin to cover her tracks, as Raste had advised with more
force than elegance. The first thing to do was to move into another
neighborhood; for that reason, she selected the house in Good Children
Street, it being as far away from her present residence as she could
possibly get, without leaving the city altogether.

At first she was tempted to give up work, and live like a lady for
a while; then she considered that her sudden wealth might arouse
suspicion, and she decided to carry on her present business, with the
addition of a small stock of fancy articles to sell on which she could
make a snug little profit, and at the same time give greater importance
and respectability to her humble calling.

Among the dead woman’s effects was the pocket-book, containing five
hundred dollars, which she had secreted from Raste. From the money in
the traveling bag she had paid the humble funeral expenses, and Dr.
Debrot’s modest bill, and there still remained some for other demands;
but besides the money there were many valuables, the silver toilet
articles, jewelry, laces, embroideries, and the handsome wardrobe of
both mother and child. In one of the trunks she found a writing-case
full of letters written in English. From these letters she could have
learned all that it was necessary to know; but she could not read
English readily, especially writing; she was afraid to show them, and
she feared to keep them; therefore she thought it best to destroy
them. So one night, when she was alone, she burned them all in the
kitchen stove; not, however, without some misgivings and some qualms
of conscience, for at the moment when she saw them crumbling to white
ashes the gentle face of the dead woman seemed to come before her, and
her blue eyes to look at her sadly and reproachfully.

Then she thought of Father Ducros, so stern and severe; he had but
little mercy or charity for those who sinned deliberately and wilfully,
as she was doing. She would never dare to go to him, and what would
become of her soul? Already she was beginning to feel that the way of
the transgressor is hard; but she silenced the striving of conscience
with specious arguments. She had not sought the temptation,—it had
come to her, in the form of a dying woman; she had done her best by
her, and now the child was thrown on her and must be cared for. She
did not know the child’s name, so she could not restore her to her
friends, even if she had any; it was not likely that she had, or they
would have advertised for her; and she meant to be good to the little
thing. She would take care of her, and bring her up well. She would be
a daughter to her. Surely that was better than sending her to a home
for foundlings, as another would do. In this way she persuaded herself
that she was really an honest, charitable woman, who was doing what
was best for the child by appropriating her mother’s property, and
destroying every proof of her identity.

From the child’s wardrobe she selected the plainest and most useful
articles for daily wear, laying aside the finest and daintiest to
dispose of as her business might offer opportunity; and from the
mother’s clothes she also made a selection, taking for her own use
what she considered plain enough to wear with propriety, while the
beautiful linen, fine laces, and pretty little trifles went a long way
in furnishing her show-window handsomely.

Notwithstanding her assurance, she felt some misgivings when she placed
those pretty, dainty articles in the broad light of day before an
observing public,—and not only the public terrified her, but the child
also; suppose she should recognize her mother’s property, and make a
scene. Therefore it was with no little anxiety that she waited the
first morning for Lady Jane’s appearance in the little shop.

After a while she came in, heavy-edged, pale, listless, and carelessly
dressed, her long silken hair uncombed, her little feet and legs bare,
and her whole manner that of a sorrowful, neglected child. She carried
her bird in her arms, as usual, and was passing out of the side-door
to the little yard, without as much as a glance, when madame, who was
watching her furtively, said to her in rather a fretful tone:

“Come here, child, and let me button your clothes. And you haven’t
brushed your hair; now this won’t do; you’re old enough to dress
yourself, and you must do it; I can’t wait on you every minute, I’ve
got something else to do.” Then she asked in a softer tone, while she
smoothed the golden hair, “See my pretty window. Don’t you think it
looks very handsome?”

Lady Jane turned her heavy eyes toward the laces and fluttering things
above her, then they slowly fell to the table, and suddenly, with a
piercing cry, she seized a little jewel-box, an odd, pretty silver
trinket that madame had displayed among her small wares, and exclaimed
passionately: “That’s my mama’s; it’s mama’s, and you sha’n’t have it,”
and turning, she rushed into madame’s room, leaving Tony to flutter
from her arms, while she held the little box tightly clasped to her
bosom.

Madame did not notice her outbreak, neither did she attempt to take the
box from her, so she carried it about with her all day; but at night,
after the little one had fallen asleep, madame unclosed the fingers
that still clung to it, and without a pang consigned it to obscurity.

“I mustn’t let her see that again,” she said to herself. “Dear me, what
should I do, if she should act like that before a customer? I’ll never
feel safe until everything is sold, and out of the way.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Well, I declare, if that isn’t the fifth customer Madame Jozain has
had this morning,” said Pepsie to Tite Souris, a few days after the new
arrival. “She must be doing a good business, for they all buy; at least
they all come out with paper parcels.”

“An’ jes’ see dem chil’ren crowd ’roun’ dat do. Lor’, dey doant cum ter
yer winner eny mo’, Miss Peps’,” said Tite, with an accent of disgust,
as she brushed the pecan-shells from Pepsie’s table. “Dey jes stan’
ober dar ter git a glimge uv dat dar goslin’ de littl’ gal holes all
day. Po chile! she might’ lunsum, setten dar all ’lone.”

“Tite, oh, Tite, can’t you coax her across the street? I want to see
her near,” cried Pepsie eagerly; “I want to see what kind of a bird
that is.”

“Dem chil’ren say how it’s a herin’. I doant believe dat—hit ain’t no
ways lak dem herin’s in de sto, what dey has in pickl’. Sho! dat ain’t
no herin’, hit’s a goslin’; I’se done see goslin’s on de plantashun,
an’ hit’s a goslin’, shore nuff.”

“Well, I want to see for myself, Tite. Go there to the fence, and ask
her to come here; tell her I’ll give her some pecans.”

Tite went on her mission, and lingered so long, staring with the
others, that her mistress had to call her back. She returned alone.
Lady Jane declined to accept the invitation.

“’T ain’t no use,” said Tite energetically. “She wunt cum. She on’ hugs
dat dar long-legged bird, an’ looks at yer solum, lak a owel; ’t ain’t
no use, she wunt cum. She might’ stuck up, Miss Peps’. She say she
doan’t want peccuns. Ain’t dat cur’ous? Oh, Lor, doan’t want peccuns!
Well, white chil’ren is der beatenes’ chil’ren!’ and Tite went to her
work, muttering her surprise at the “cur-ousness” of white children in
general, and Lady Jane in particular.

All day long Pepsie watched, hoping that the little girl might change
her mind, and decide to be more neighborly; but she was doomed to
disappointment. Near night, feeling that it was useless to hope,
and noticing that madame’s customers were dropping off, she sought
consolation in a game of solitaire.

Just as she was at the most exciting point, a slight rustling sound
attracted her attention, and, looking up, she saw a little figure in a
soiled white frock, with long yellow hair falling over her shoulders,
and a thick, neglected bang almost touching her eyebrows. The little
face was pale and sorrowful; but a faint smile dimpled the lips, and
the eyes were bright and earnest. Lady Jane was holding the bird up
in both hands over the iron railing, and when she caught Pepsie’s
surprised glance she said very politely and very sweetly:

“Would you like to see Tony?”

And that was the way in which Lady Jane and Pepsie first became
acquainted.




CHAPTER IX

THE FIRST VISIT TO PEPSIE


When Pepsie first looked at Lady Jane, standing before her holding up
the bird, with the light of the sunset on her yellow hair, and her lips
parted in a smile that made even the solemn eyes bright, she felt as if
she saw a visitor from another world.

For a moment, she could only look at her; then she found voice to say:

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Tite said you wouldn’t. We looked for
you all day.”

“I came to show Tony to you before I go to bed. I’ll hold him so you
can see him.” And Lady Jane stretched up on the tips of her little
white toes to reach the bird above the railing.

“Wait a moment, I’ll have Tite open the door for you. Won’t you come
in?”

Tite, who heard Pepsie talking, was peeping through the kitchen-door,
and in an instant she had pushed the bolt aside, and Lady Jane stood in
the little room, and was looking around her with pleased surprise.

“Why, how nice!” she said, with a little sigh of content; “I’m glad I
came. Have you got a kitty?”

“A kitty? you mean a little cat?” asked Pepsie, her face one broad
smile over the child and bird. “No, I haven’t one, and I’m sorry.”

Lady Jane had dropped Tony on the floor, holding him with a long string
fastened to the leather band on his leg, while she looked over Pepsie’s
little, distorted figure with mingled curiosity and pity.

In the mean time, Pepsie and Tite were watching the bird with the
closest attention, while he hopped about, not very gracefully, picking
grains of brick-dust from the cracks of the floor.

At last Tite, unable to control her wonder and admiration, broke forth:

“Miss Peps’, jes look at he. Ain’t he the cur’ousest bird y’ ever seed?
An’ he ain’t no goslin’, shore nuff; jes look at he tail feaders; jes
lak dem feaders on Mam’selle Marie’s hat.”

“And he knows when I speak to him,” said Lady Jane, lifting her lovely
eyes to Pepsie. “Now I’ll call him, and you’ll see him come.”

Then she chirruped softly, and called “Tony, Tony.” The bird turned his
bright eyes on her, and with a fluttering run he hurried to her.

“Oh, oh!” cried Pepsie, quite overcome with surprise. “Isn’t he
knowing! I never saw such a bird. Is he a wild bird?”

“No, he’s very tame, or he’d fly away,” replied Lady Jane, looking at
him fondly. “He’s a blue heron; no one has a bird like him.”

“A blue heron!” repeated Pepsie wonderingly. “I never heard of such a
bird.”

“Didn’t I done tole yer dem chil’ren say he a herin’, an’ he ain’t no
herin’?” interrupted Tite, determined to support her assertion as to
her knowledge of the difference between fish and fowl. “I tole yer,
Miss Peps’, how herin’s fish, an’ he a bird, shore nuff.” And, unable
to repress her mirth at the oddity of the name, she burst into a loud
laugh of derision.

Lady Jane looked hurt and surprised, and, stooping for Tony, she
gathered him up and turned toward the door.

“Oh, don’t go, please don’t!” pleaded Pepsie. “Tite, stop laughing, and
put a chair for the little girl, and then go to your work.”

Tite obeyed reluctantly, with many a grin and backward look, and Lady
Jane, after lingering a moment at the door, shy and undecided, put Tony
down again, and climbed into the chair on the opposite side of the
table.

“Now that darky’s gone,” said Pepsie, with a gaiety that was
reassuring, “we can talk sense. Do you understand me, everything I say?
You know I don’t speak English very well.”

“Oh, yes!” answered Lady Jane; “I know what you say, and I like you.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Pepsie brightly, “because I’ve been just crazy
to have you come over here. Now tell me, is Madame Jozain your aunt or
your grandma?”

“Why, she’s my Tante Pauline; that’s all,” replied the child
indifferently.

“Do you love her dearly?” asked Pepsie, who was something of a little
diplomat.

“No, I don’t love her,” said Lady Jane decidedly.

“Oh my! Why, isn’t she good to you?”

Lady Jane made no reply, but looked wistfully at Pepsie, as if she
would rather not express her opinion on the subject.

“Well, never mind. I guess she’s kind to you, only perhaps you miss
your ma. Has she gone away?” And Pepsie lowered her voice and spoke
very softly; she felt that she was treading on delicate ground, but she
so wanted to know all about the dear little thing, not so much from
curiosity as from the interest she felt in her.

Lady Jane did not reply, and Pepsie again asked very gently:

“Has your mama gone away?”

“Tante Pauline says so,” replied the child, as the woe-begone
expression settled on her little face again. “She says mama’s gone
away, and that she’ll come back. I think she’s gone to heaven to see
papa. You know papa went to heaven before we left the ranch—and mama
got tired waiting for him to come back, and so she’s gone to see him;
but I _wish_ she’d taken me with her. I want to see papa too, and I
don’t like to wait so long.”

The soft, serious little voice fell to a sigh, and she looked solemnly
out of the window at the strip of sunset sky over Madame Jozain’s house.

Pepsie’s great eyes filled with tears, and she turned away her head to
hide them.

“Heaven’s somewhere up there, isn’t it?” she continued, pointing
upward. “Every night when the stars come out, I watch to see if papa
and mama are looking at me. I think they like to stay up there, and
don’t want to come back, and perhaps they’ve forgotten all about Lady
Jane.”

“Lady Jane, is that your name? Why, how pretty!” said Pepsie, trying
to speak brightly; “and what a little darling you are! I don’t think
any one would ever forget you, much less your papa and mama. Don’t
get tired waiting; you’re sure to see them again, and you needn’t to
be lonesome, sitting there on the gallery every day alone. While your
aunt’s busy with her customers, you can come over here with your bird,
and sit with me. I’ll show you how to shell pecans and sugar them, and
I’ll read some pretty stories to you. And oh, I’ll teach you to play
solitaire.”

“What is solitaire?” asked Lady Jane, brightening visibly.

“It’s a game of cards,” and Pepsie nodded toward the table; “I was
playing when you came. It’s very amusing. Now tell me about your bird.
Where did you get him?”

“A boy gave him to me—a nice boy. It was on the cars, and mama said I
could have him; that was before mama’s dear head ached so. It ached so,
she couldn’t speak afterward.”

“And haven’t you a doll?” interrupted Pepsie, seeing that the child was
approaching dangerous ground.

“A doll? Oh yes, I’ve got ever so many at the ranch; but I haven’t any
here. Tante Pauline promised me one, but she hasn’t got it yet.”

“Well, never mind; I’ll make you one; I make lovely dolls for my little
cousins, the Paichoux. I must tell you about the Paichoux. There is
Uncle Paichoux, and Tante Modeste, and Marie, the eldest,—she has taken
her first communion, and goes to balls,—and then there is Tiburce,
a big boy, and Sophie and Nanette, and a lot of little ones, all
good, pleasant children, so healthy and so happy. Uncle Paichoux is a
dairyman; they live on Frenchman Street, way, way down where it is like
the country, and they have a big house, a great deal larger than any
house in this neighborhood, with a garden, and figs and peaches, and
lovely pomegranates that burst open when they are ripe, and Marie has
roses and crape myrtle and jasmine. It is lovely there—just lovely. I
went there once, long ago, before my back hurt me so much.”

“Does your back hurt you now?” interrupted Lady Jane, diverted from the
charming description of the Paichoux home by sudden sympathy for the
speaker.

“Yes, sometimes; you see how crooked it is. It’s all grown out, and I
can’t bear to be jolted; that’s why I never go anywhere; besides, I
can’t walk,” added Pepsie, feeling a secret satisfaction in enumerating
her ills. “But it’s my back; my back’s the worst.”

“What ails it?” asked Lady Jane, with the deepest sympathy in her grave
little voice.

“I’ve got a spine in my back, and the doctor says I’ll never get over
it. It’s something when you once get it that you can’t be cured of,
and it’s mighty bad; but I’ve got used to it now,” and she smiled at
Lady Jane; a smile full of patience and resignation. “I wasn’t always
so bad,” she went on cheerfully, “before papa died. You see papa was a
fireman, and he was killed in a fire when I was very small; but before
that he used to take me out in his arms, and sometimes I used to go out
in Tante Modeste’s milk-cart—such a pretty cart, painted red, and set
up on two high wheels, and in front there are two great cans, as tall
as you are, and they shine like silver, and little measures hang on the
spouts where the milk comes out, and over the seat is a top just like a
buggy top, which they put up when the sun is too hot, or it rains. Oh,
it’s just beautiful to sit up on that high seat, and go like the wind!
I remember how it felt on my face,” and Pepsie leaned back and closed
her eyes in ecstasy, “and then the milk! When I was thirsty, Tante
Modeste would give me a cup of milk out of the big can, and it was so
sweet and fresh. Some day I’m sure she’ll take you, and then you’ll
know how it all was; but I don’t think I shall ever go again, because
I can’t bear the jolting; and besides,” said Pepsie, with a very broad
smile of satisfaction, “I’m so well off here; I can see everything, and
everybody, so I don’t mind; and then I’ve been once, and know just what
it’s like to go fast with the wind in my face.”

“I used to ride on my pony with papa,” began Lady Jane, her memory of
the past awakened by the description of Pepsie’s drive. “My pony was
named Sunflower, now I remember,” and her little face grew radiant,
and her eyes sparkled with joy; “papa used to put me on Sunflower, and
mama was afraid I’d fall.” Then the brief glow faded out of her face,
for she heard Madame Jozain call across the street, “Lady! Lady! Come,
child, come. It’s nearly dark, and time you were in bed.”

With touching docility, and without the least hesitation, she gathered
up Tony, who was standing on one leg under her chair, and, holding up
her face for Pepsie to kiss, she said good-by.

“And you’ll come again in the morning,” cried Pepsie, hugging her
fondly; “you’ll be sure to come in the morning.”

And Lady Jane said yes.




CHAPTER X

LADY JANE FINDS OTHER FRIENDS


Thus Lady Jane’s new life, in the quaint old Rue des Bons Enfants,
began under quite pleasant auspices. From the moment that Pepsie, with
a silent but not unrecorded vow, constituted herself the champion and
guardian angel of the lonely little stranger, she was surrounded by
friends, and hedged in with the most loyal affection.

Because Pepsie loved the child, the good Madelon loved her also, and
although she saw her but seldom, being obliged to leave home early and
return late, she usually left her some substantial token of good will,
in the shape of cakes or pralines, or some odd little toy that she
picked up on Bourbon Street on her way to and from her stand.

Madelon was a pleasant-faced, handsome woman, always clean and always
cheery; no matter how hard the day had been for her, whether hot or
cold, rainy or dusty, she returned home at night as fresh and cheerful
as when she went out in the morning. Pepsie adored her mother, and no
two human beings were ever happier than they when the day’s work was
over, and they sat down together to their little supper.

Then Pepsie recounted to her mother everything that had happened during
the day, or at least everything that had come within her line of vision
as she sat at her window; and Madelon in turn would tell her of all she
had heard out in her world, the world of the Rue Bourbon, and after
the advent of Lady Jane the child was a constant theme of conversation
between them. Her beauty, her intelligence, her pretty manners, her
charming little ways were a continual wonder to the homely woman and
girl, who had seen little beyond their own sphere of life.

If Madelon was fortunate enough to get home early, she always found
Lady Jane with Pepsie, and the loving way with which the child would
spring to meet her, clinging to her neck and nestling to her broad
motherly bosom, showed how deeply she needed the maternal affection so
freely lavished upon her.

At first Madame Jozain affected to be a little averse to such a close
intimacy, and even went so far as to say to Madame Fernandez, the
tobacconist’s wife, who sat all day with her husband in his little
shop rolling cigarettes and selling lottery tickets, that she did not
like her niece to be much with the lame girl opposite, whose mother
was called “Bonne Praline.” Perhaps they were honest people, and would
do the child no harm; but a woman who was never called madame, and who
sat all day on the Rue Bourbon, was likely to have the manners of the
streets. And Lady Jane had never been thrown with such people; she had
been raised very carefully, and she didn’t want her to lose her pretty
manners.

Madame Fernandez agreed that Madelon was not over-refined, and that
Pepsie lacked the accomplishments of a young lady. “But they are
very honest,” she said, “and the girl has a generous heart, and is
so patient and cheerful; besides, Madelon has a sister who is rich.
Monsieur Paichoux, her sister’s husband, is very well off, a solid
man, with a large dairy business; and their daughter Marie, who just
graduated at the Sacred Heart, is very pretty, and is _fiancée_ to a
young man of superior family, a son of Judge Guiot, and you know who
the Guiots are.”

Yes, madame knew. Her father, Pierre Bergeron, and Judge Guiot had
always been friends, and the families had visited in other days. If
that was the case, the Paichoux must be very respectable; and if
“Bonne Praline” was the sister-in-law of a Paichoux, and prospective
aunt-in-law to the son of a judge, there was no reason why she should
keep the child away; therefore she allowed her to go whenever she
wished, which was from the time she was out of bed in the morning until
it was quite dark at night.

Lady Jane shared Pepsie’s meals, and sat at the table with her,
learning to crack and shell pecans with such wonderful facility that
Pepsie’s task was accomplished some hours sooner, therefore she had
a good deal of time each day to devote to her little friend. And it
was very amusing to witness Pepsie’s motherly care for the child. She
bathed her, and brushed her long silken hair; she trimmed her bang to
the most becoming length; she dressed her with the greatest taste, and
tied her sash with the _chic_ of a French milliner; she examined the
little pink nails and pearls of teeth to see if they were perfectly
clean, and she joined with Lady Jane in rebelling against madame’s
decree that the child should go barefoot while the weather was warm.
“All the little creoles did, and she was not going to buy shoes for
the child to knock out every day.” Therefore, when her shoes were
worn, Madelon bought her a neat little pair on the Rue Bourbon, and
Pepsie darned her stockings and sewed on buttons and strings with the
most exemplary patience. When madame complained that, with all the
business she had to attend to, the white frocks were too much trouble
and expense to keep clean, Tite Souris, who was a fair laundress,
begged that she might be allowed to wash them, which she did with such
good-will that Lady Jane was always neat and dainty.

Gradually the sorrowful, neglected look disappeared from her small
face, and she became rosy and dimpled again, and as contented and
happy a child as ever was seen in Good Children Street. Every one in
the neighborhood knew her; the gracious, beautiful little creature,
with her blue heron, became one of the sights of the quarter. She was
a picture and a poem in one to the homely, good-natured creoles, and
everywhere she went she carried sunshine with her.

Little Gex, a tiny, shrunken, bent Frenchman, who kept a small fruit
and vegetable stall just above Madelon’s, felt that the day had been
dark indeed when Lady Jane’s radiant little face did not illumine his
dingy quarters. How his old, dull eyes would brighten when he heard her
cheery voice, “Good morning, Mr. Gex; Tante Pauline”—or Pepsie, as the
case might be—“would like a nickel of apples, onions, or carrots”; and
the orange that was always given her for _lagniappe_ was received with
a charming smile, and a “Thank you,” that went straight to the old,
withered heart.

Gex was a quiet, polite little man, who seldom held any conversation
with his customers beyond the simple requirements of his business; and
children, as a general thing, he detested, for the reason that the
ill-bred little imps in the neighborhood made him the butt of their
mischievous ridicule, for his appearance was droll in the extreme: his
small face was destitute of beard and as wrinkled as a withered apple,
and he usually wore a red handkerchief tied over his bald head with
the ends hanging under his chin; his dress consisted of rather short
and very wide trousers, a little jacket, and an apron that reached
nearly to his feet. This very quaint costume gave him a nondescript
appearance, which excited the mirth of the juvenile population to such
a degree that they did not always restrain it within proper bounds.
Therefore it was very seldom that a child entered his den, and such a
thing as one receiving _lagniappe_ was quite unheard of.

[Illustration: MR. GEX AT THE DOOR OF HIS SHOP]

All day long he sat on his small wooden chair behind the shelf
across his window, on which was laid in neat piles oranges, apples,
sweet potatoes, onions, cabbages, and even the odorous garlic; they
were always sound and clean, and for that reason, even if he did
not give _lagniappe_ to small customers, he had a fair trade in the
neighborhood. And he was very neat and industrious. When he was not
engaged in preparing his vegetables, he was always tinkering at
something of interest to himself; he could mend china and glass, clocks
and jewelry, shoes and shirts; he washed and patched his own wardrobe,
and darned his own stockings. Often when a customer came in he would
push his spectacles upon his forehead, lay down his stocking and
needle, and deal out his cabbage and carrots as unconcernedly as if he
had been engaged in a more manly occupation.

From some of the dingy corners of his den he had unearthed an old
chair, very stiff and high, and entirely destitute of a bottom; this he
cleaned and repaired by nailing across the frame an orange-box cover
decorated with a very bright picture, and one day he charmed Lady Jane
by asking her to sit down and eat her orange while he mended his jacket.

She declined eating her orange, as she always shared it with Pepsie,
but accepted the invitation to be seated. Placing Tony to forage on a
basket of refuse vegetables, she climbed into the chair, placed her
little heels on the topmost rung, smoothed down her short skirt, and,
resting her elbows on her knees, leaned her rosy little cheeks on her
palms, and set herself to studying Gex seriously and critically. At
length, her curiosity overcoming her diffidence, she said in a very
polite tone, but with a little hesitation: “Mr. Gex, are you a man or a
woman?”

Gex, for the moment, was fairly startled out of himself, and, perhaps
for the first time in years, he threw back his head and laughed
heartily.

“_Bon! bon!_ ’Tis good; ’tis vairy good. Vhy, my leetle lady, sometime
I don’t know myself; ’cause, you see, I have to be both the man and the
voman; but vhy in the vorld did you just ask me such a funny question?”

“Because, Mr. Gex,” replied Lady Jane, very gravely, “I’ve thought
about it often. Because—men don’t sew, and wear aprons,—and—women
don’t wear trousers; so, you see, I couldn’t tell which _you_ were.”

“Oh, _my foi_!” and again Gex roared with laughter until a neighbor,
who was passing, thought he had gone crazy, and stopped to look at him
with wonder; but she only saw him leaning back, laughing with all his
might, while Lady Jane sat looking at him with a frowning, flushed
face, as if she was disgusted at his levity.

“I don’t know why you laugh so,” she said loftily, straightening up in
her chair, and regarding Gex as if he had disappointed her. “I think
it’s very bad for you to have no one to mend your clothes, and—and to
have to sew like a woman, if—if you’re a man.”

“Vhy, bless your leetle heart, so it is; but you see I am just one
poor, lonely _creature_, and it don’t make much difference vhether I’m
one or t’ other; nobody cares now.”

“I do,” returned Lady Jane brightly; “and I’m glad I know, because,
when Pepsie teaches me to sew, _I’m_ going to mend your clothes, Mr.
Gex.”

“Vell, you are one leetle angel,” exclaimed Gex, quite overcome. “Here,
take another orange.”

“Oh, no; thank you. I’ve only bought one thing, and I can’t take two
_lagniappes_; that would be wrong. But I must go now.”

And, jumping down, she took Tony from his comfortable nest among the
cabbage-leaves, and with a polite good-by she darted out, leaving the
dingy little shop darker for her going.

For a long time after she went Gex sat looking thoughtfully at his
needlework. Then he sighed heavily, and muttered to himself: “If Marie
had lived! If she’d lived, I’d been more of a man.”




CHAPTER XI

THE VISIT TO THE PAICHOUX


One bright morning in October, while Pepsie and Lady Jane were very
busy over their pecans, there was a sudden rattling of wheels and
jingling of cans, and Tante Modeste’s milk-cart, gay in a fresh coat
of red paint, with the shining cans, and smart little mule in a bright
harness, drew up before the door, and Tante Modeste herself jumped
briskly down from the high seat, and entered like a fresh breath of
spring.

She and Madelon were twin sisters, and very much alike; the same large,
fair face, the same smooth, dark hair combed straight back from the
forehead, and twisted in a glossy knot at the back, and like Madelon
she wore a stiffly starched, light calico gown, finished at the neck
with a muslin scarf tied in a large bow; her head was bare, and in her
ears she wore gold hoops, and around her neck was a heavy chain of the
same precious metal.

When Pepsie saw her she held out her arms, flushing with pleasure, and
cried joyfully: “Oh, Tante Modeste, how glad I am! I thought you’d
forgotten to come for Lady Jane.”

Tante Modeste embraced her niece warmly, and then caught Lady Jane to
her heart just as Madelon did. “Forgotten her? Oh, no; I’ve thought of
her all the time since I was here; but I’ve been so busy.”

“What about, Tante Modeste?” asked Pepsie eagerly.

“Oh, you can’t think how your cousin Marie is turning us upside down,
since she decided to be a lady.” Here Tante Modeste made a little
grimace of disdain. “She must have our house changed, and her papa
can’t say ‘no’ to her. I like it best as it was, but Marie must have
paint and carpets; think of it—carpets! But I draw the line at the
parlor—the _salon_,” and again Tante Modeste shrugged and laughed. “She
wants a _salon_; well, she shall have a _salon_ just as she likes it,
and I will have the other part of the house as I like it. Just imagine,
your uncle has gone on Rue Royale, and bought a mirror, a console, a
cabinet, a sofa, and a carpet.”

“Oh, oh, Tante Modeste, how lovely!” cried Pepsie, clasping her hands
in admiration. “I wish I could see the parlor just once.”

“You shall, my dear; you shall, if you have to be brought on a bed.
When there’s a wedding,”—and she nodded brightly, as much as to say,
“and there will be one soon,”—“you shall be brought there. I’ll arrange
it so you can come comfortably, my dear. Have patience, you shall come.”

“How good you are, Tante Modeste,” cried Pepsie, enraptured at the
promise of such happiness.

“But now, _chérie_,” she said, turning to Lady Jane, whose little
face was expressing in pantomime her pleasure at Pepsie’s delight,
“I’ve come for you this morning to take you a ride in the cart, as I
promised.”

“Tante Pauline doesn’t know,” began Lady Jane dutifully. “I must go and
ask her if I can.”

“I’ll send Tite,” cried Pepsie, eager to have the child enjoy what to
her seemed the greatest pleasure on earth.

“Here, Tite,” she said, as the black visage appeared at the door. “Run
quick across to Madame Jozain, and ask if Miss Lady can go to ride in
the milk-cart with Madame Paichoux; and bring me a clean frock and her
hat and sash.”

Tite flew like the wind, her black legs making zigzag strokes across
the street, while Pepsie brushed the child’s beautiful hair until it
shone like gold.

Madame Jozain did not object. Of course, a milk-cart wasn’t a carriage,
but then Lady Jane was only a child, and it didn’t matter.

While Pepsie was putting the finishing touches to Lady Jane’s toilet,
Tante Modeste and Tite Souris were busy bringing various packages from
the milk-cart to the little room; butter, cream, cheese, sausage, a
piece of pig, and a fine capon. When Tante Modeste came, she always
left a substantial proof of her visit.

There was only one drawback to Lady Jane’s joy, and that was the
necessity of leaving Tony behind.

“You might take him,” said Tante Modeste, good-naturedly, “but there
are so many young ones home they’d pester the bird about to death, and
something might happen to him; he might get away, and then you’d never
forgive us.”

“I know I mustn’t take him,” said Lady Jane, with sweet resignation.
“Dear Tony, be a good bird while I’m gone, and you shall have some bugs
to-morrow.” Tony was something of an epicure, and “bugs,” as Lady Jane
called them, extracted from cabbage-leaves, were a delight to him. Then
she embraced him fondly, and fastened him securely to Pepsie’s chair,
and went away with many good-bys and kisses for her friend and not a
few lingering glances for her pet.

It was a perfectly enchanting situation to Lady Jane when she was
mounted up on the high seat, close under Tante Modeste’s sheltering
wing, with her little feet on the cream-cheese box, and the two tall
cans standing in front like sturdy tin footmen waiting for orders. Then
Tante Modeste pulled the top up over their heads and shook her lines at
the fat little mule, and away they clattered down Good Children Street,
with all the children and all the dogs running on behind.

It was a long and delightful drive to Lady Jane before they got out of
town to where the cottages were scattered and set in broad fields, with
trees and pretty gardens. At length they turned out of the beautiful
Esplanade, with its shady rows of trees, into Frenchman Street, and
away down the river they stopped before a large double cottage that
stood well back from the street, surrounded by trees and flowers;
a good-natured, healthy-looking boy threw open the gate, and Tante
Modeste clattered into the yard, calling out:

“Here, Tiburce, quick, my boy; unhitch the mule, and turn him out.” The
little animal understood perfectly well what she said, and shaking his
long ears he nickered approvingly.

Lady Jane was lifted down from her high perch by Paichoux himself, who
gave her a right cordial welcome, and in a moment she was surrounded
by Tante Modeste’s good-natured brood. At first she felt a little shy,
there were so many, and they were such noisy children; but they were
so kind and friendly toward her that they soon won her confidence and
affection.

That day was a “red-letter day” to Lady Jane; she was introduced to
all the pets of the farm-yard, the poultry, the dogs, the kittens,
the calves, the ponies, and little colts, and the great soft motherly
looking cows that stood quietly in rows to be milked; and afterward
they played under the trees in the grass, while they gathered roses
by the armful to carry to Pepsie, and filled a basket with pecans for
Madelon.

She was feasted on gumbo, fried chicken, rice-cakes, and delicious
cream cheese until she could eat no more; she was caressed and petted
to her heart’s content from the pretty Marie down to the smallest
white-headed Paichoux; she saw the fine parlor, the mirror, the
pictures, the cabinet of shells, and the vases of wax-flowers, and, to
crown all, Paichoux himself lifted her on Tiburce’s pony and rode her
around the yard several times, while Tante Modeste made her a beautiful
cake, frosted like snow, with her name in pink letters across the top.

At last, when the milk-cart came around with its evening load of fresh
milk for waiting customers, Lady Jane was lifted up again beside Tante
Modeste, overloaded with presents, caresses, and good wishes, the
happiest child, as well as the tiredest, that ever rode in a milk-cart.

Long before they reached the noisy city streets, Lady Jane became very
silent, and Tante Modeste peeped under the broad hat to see if she had
fallen asleep; but no, the blue eyes were wide and wistful, and the
little face had lost its glow of happiness.

“Are you tired, _chérie_?” asked Tante Modeste kindly.

“No, thank you,” she replied, with a soft sigh. “I was thinking of
papa, and Sunflower, and the ranch, and dear mama. Oh, I wonder if
she’ll come back soon.”

Tante Modeste made no reply, but she fell to thinking too. There was
something strange about it all that she couldn’t understand.

The child’s remarks and Madame Jozain’s stories did not agree. There
was a mystery, and she meant to get at the bottom of it by some means.
And when Tante Modeste set out to accomplish a thing she usually
succeeded.




CHAPTER XII

TANTE MODESTE’S SUSPICIONS


“Paichoux,” said Tante Modeste to her husband, that same night, before
the tired dairyman went to bed, “I’ve been thinking of something all
the evening.”

“_Vraiment!_ I’m surprised,” returned Paichoux facetiously; “I didn’t
know you ever wasted time thinking.”

“I don’t usually,” went on Tante Modeste, ignoring her husband’s little
attempt at pleasantry; “but really, papa, this thing is running through
my head constantly. It’s about that little girl of Madame Jozain’s;
there’s something wrong about the _ménage_ there. That child is no more
a Jozain than I am. A Jozain, indeed!—she’s a little aristocrat, if
ever there was one, a born little lady.”

“Perhaps she’s a Bergeron,” suggested Paichoux, with a quizzical smile.
“Madame prides herself on being a Bergeron, and the Bergerons are
fairly decent people. Old Bergeron, the baker, was an honest man.”

“That may be; but she isn’t a Bergeron, either. That child is
different, you can see it. Look at her beside our young ones. Why,
she’s a swan among geese.”

“Well, that happens naturally sometimes,” said the philosophic
Paichoux. “I’ve seen it over and over in common breeds. It’s an
accident, but it happens. In a litter of curs, there’ll be often one
stylish dog; the puppies’ll grow up together; but there’ll be one
different from the others, and the handsomest one may not be the
smartest, but he’ll be the master, and get the best of everything. Now
look at that black filly of mine; where did she get her style? Not from
either father or mother. It’s an accident—an accident,—and it may be
with children as it is with puppies and colts, and that little one may
be an example of it.”

“_Nonsense_, Paichoux!” said Tante Modeste sharply. “There’s no
accident about it; there’s a mystery, and Madame Jozain doesn’t tell
the truth when she talks about the child. I can feel it even when she
doesn’t contradict herself. The other day I stepped in there to buy
Marie a ribbon, and I spoke about the child! in fact, I asked which
side she came from, and madame answered very curtly that her father was
a Jozain. Now this is what set me to thinking: To-day, when Pepsie was
putting a clean frock on the child, I noticed that her under-clothing
was marked ‘J. C.’ Remember, ‘J. C.’ Well, the day that I was in
madame’s shop, she said to me in her smooth way that she’d heard
of Marie’s intended marriage, and that she had something superior,
exquisite, that she’d like to show me. Then she took a box out of her
_armoire_, and in it were a number of the most beautiful sets of linen
I ever saw, _batiste_ as fine as cobwebs and real lace. ‘They’re just
what you need for _mademoiselle_,’ she said in her wheedling tone;
‘since she’s going to marry into such a distinguished family, you’ll
want to give her the best.’

“‘They’re too fine for my daughter,’ I answered, as I turned them over
and examined them carefully. They were the handsomest things!—and on
every piece was a pretty little embroidered monogram, J. C.; mind you,
the same as the letters on the child’s clothes. Then I asked her right
out, for it’s no use mincing matters with such a woman, where in the
world she got such lovely linen.

“‘They belonged to my niece,’ she said, with a hypocritical sigh, ‘and
I’d like to sell them; they’re no good to the child; before she’s grown
up they’ll be spoiled with damp and mildew; I’d rather have the money
to educate her.’

“‘But the monogram; it’s a pity they’re marked J. C.’ I repeated the
letters over to see what she would say, and as I live she was ready for
me.

“‘No, madame; it’s C. J.—Claire Jozain; her name was Claire, you’re
looking at it wrong, and really it don’t matter much how the letters
are placed, for they’re always misleading, you never know which comes
first; and, dear Madame Paichoux,’—she _deared_ me, and that made
me still more suspicious,—‘don’t you see that the C might easily be
mistaken for G?—and no one will notice the J, it looks so much like a
part of the vine around it. I’ll make them a bargain if you’ll take
them.’

“I told her no, that they were too fine for my girl; _par exemple!_ as
if I’d let Mariet wear stolen clothes, perhaps.”

“Hush, hush, Modeste!” exclaimed Paichoux; “you might get in the courts
for that.”

“Or get her there, which would be more to the purpose. I’d like to know
when and where that niece died, and who was with her; besides, the
child says such strange things, now and then, they set one to thinking.
To-day when I was taking her home, she began to talk about the ranch,
and her papa and mama. Sometimes I think they’ve stolen her.”

“Oh, Modeste! The woman isn’t as bad as that; I’ve never heard anything
against _her_,” interrupted the peaceable Paichoux, “she’s got a bad
son, it’s true. That boy, Raste, is his father over again. Why, I hear
he’s already been in the courts; but _she’s_ all right as far as I
know.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Tante Modeste, oracularly; “but I’m not
satisfied about that monogram. It was J. C, as sure as I live, and not
C. J.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, mama,” said Paichoux, after some
deliberate thought; he was slow, but he was sure; “we’ll keep a watch
on the little one, and if anything happens, I’ll stand by her. You tell
sister Madelon to let me know if anything happens, and I’ll see her
through all right.”

“Then I believe she’s safe,” said Tante Modeste proudly, “for every one
knows that when Paichoux says a thing, he means it.”

If Madam Jozain had only known how unfavorable were the comments of her
supposed friends, she would not have felt as comfortable as she did.
Although she was riding on the topmost wave of prosperity, as far as
her business was concerned, she was not, as I said before, entirely
happy unless she had the good opinion of every one, and for some
reason, probably the result of a guilty conscience, she fancied that
people looked askance at her; for, in spite of her polite advances,
she had not succeeded in making friends of her neighbors. They came to
her shop to chat and look, and sometimes to buy, and she was as civil
to them as it was possible to be. She gave them her most comfortable
chairs, and pulled down everything for them to examine, and unfolded,
untied, and unpacked, only to have the trouble of putting them all away
again. It was true they bought a good deal at times, and she had got
rid of many of “those things” in a quiet way, and at fair prices; but
still the neighbors kept her at a distance; they were polite enough,
but they were not cordial, and it was cordiality, warmth, admiration,
flattery, for which she hungered.

It was true she had a great deal to be proud of, for Raste was growing
handsomer and more of a gentleman every day. He was the best looking
fellow in the quarter, and he dressed so well,—like his father, he was
large and showy,—and wore the whitest linen, the gayest neckties, and
the finest jewelry, among which was the beautiful watch of the dead
woman. This watch he was fond of showing to his friends, and pointing
out the monogram, C. J., in diamonds; for, like his mother, he found it
easy to transpose the letters to suit himself.

All this went a long way with Raste’s intimates, and made him very
popular among a certain class of young men who lived by their wits and
yet kept up a show of respectability.

And then, beside her satisfaction in Raste, there was the little Lady
Jane, to whom every door in the neighborhood was open. She was the
most beautiful and the most stylish child that ever was seen in Good
Children Street, and she attracted more attention than all the other
people put together. She never went out but what she heard something
flattering about the little darling, and she knew that a great many
people came to the shop just to get a glimpse of her.

All this satisfied her ambition, but not her vanity. She knew that
Lady Jane cared more for Pepsie, Madelon, or even little Gex, than she
did for her. The child was always dutiful, but never affectionate.
Sometimes a feeling of bitterness would stir within her, and, thinking
she had cause to complain, she would accuse the child of ingratitude.

“She is a little ingrate, a little viper, that stings me after I have
warmed her. And to think of what I’ve done for her, and the worry and
anxiety I’ve suffered! After all, I’m poorly paid, and get but little
for all my studying and planning. She’s a little upstart, a little
aristocrat, who will trample on me some day. Well, it’s what one gets
in this world for doing a good deed. If I’d turned her and her mother
out to die in the street, I’d been thought more of than I am now, and
perhaps I’d been as well off.”




CHAPTER XIII

ONE OF THE NOBILITY


On the next block, above little Gex’s fruit stall, was a small cottage
set close to the sidewalk, with two narrow windows covered with batten
shutters that no one remembered to have ever seen opened. On one side
was a high green fence, in which was a small door, and above this
fence some flowering trees were visible. A pink crape-myrtle shed its
transparent petals on the sidewalk below. A white oleander and a Cape
jasmine made the air fragrant, while a “Gold of Ophir” rose, entwined
with a beautiful “Reine Henriette,” crept along the top of the fence,
and hung in riotous profusion above the heads of the passers.

Every day, in rain or shine, when Lady Jane visited little Gex, she
continued her walk to the green fence, and stood looking wistfully
at the clustering roses that bloomed securely beyond the reach of
pilfering fingers, vainly wishing that some of them would fall at her
feet, or that the gate might accidentally open, so that she could get a
peep within.

And Lady Jane was not more curious than most of the older residents
of Good Children Street. For many years it had been the desire of the
neighborhood to see what was going on behind that impenetrable green
fence. Those who were lucky enough to get a glimpse, when the gate was
opened for a moment to take the nickel of milk, or loaf of bread, saw
a beautiful little garden, carefully tended and filled with exquisite
flowers; but Lady Jane was never fortunate enough to be present on
one of those rare occasions, as they always happened very early, and
when her little yellow head was resting on its pillow; but sometimes,
while she lingered on the sidewalk, near the gate, or under the tightly
closed shutters, she would hear the melodious song of a bird, or
the tinkling, liquid sound of an ancient piano, thin and clear as a
trickling rivulet, and with it she would hear sometimes a high, sweet,
tremulous voice singing an aria from some old-fashioned opera. Lady
Jane didn’t know that it was an old-fashioned opera, but she thought
it very odd and beautiful, all the same; and she loved to linger and
listen to the correct but feeble rendering of certain passages that
touched her deeply: for the child had an inborn love of music and one
of the most exquisite little voices ever heard.

Pepsie used to close her eyes in silent ecstasy when Lady Jane sang the
few simple airs and lullabies she had learned from her mother, and when
her tender little voice warbled

      “Sleep, baby, sleep,
    The white moon is the shepherdess,
    The little stars the sheep,”

Pepsie would cover her face, and cry silently. No one ever heard her
sing but Pepsie. She was very shy about it, and if even Tite Souris
came into the room she would stop instantly.

Therefore, little Gex was very much surprised one day, when he went
out on the _banquette_, to see his small favorite before the closed
shutters with Tony in her arms, his long legs almost touching the
sidewalk, so carelessly was he held, while his enraptured little
mistress was standing with her serious eyes fixed steadily on the
window, her face pale and illumined with a sort of spiritual light, her
lips parted, and a ripple of the purest, sweetest, most liquid melody
issuing from between them that Gex had ever heard, even in those old
days when he used to haunt the French Opera.

He softly drew near to listen; she was keeping perfect time with the
tinkling piano and the faded voice of the singer within who with many
a quaver and break was singing a beautiful old French song; and the
bird-like voice of the child went up and down, in and out through the
difficult passages with wonderful passion and precision.

Gex slipped away silently, and stole almost guiltily into his little
den. He had discovered one of the child’s secret pleasures, as well as
one of her rare gifts, and he felt that he had no right to possess such
wonderful knowledge.

“_Ma foi!_” he thought, wiping way a fugitive tear, for the music had
awakened slumbering memories, “some one ought to know of that voice. I
wish Mam’selle d’Hautreve wasn’t so unapproachable; I’d speak to her,
and perhaps she’d teach the child.”

Presently Lady Jane entered, carrying Tony languidly; she said
good-morning as politely as usual, and smiled her charming smile, but
she seemed preoccupied, and unusually serious. With a tired sigh she
dropped Tony on the floor, and climbed up to her chair, where she
sat for some time in deep thought. At length she said in an intensely
earnest voice: “Oh, Mr. Gex, I wish I could get inside that gate some
way. I wish I could see who it is that sings.”

“Vhy, my leetle lady, it’s Mam’selle Diane vhat sings so fine.”

“Who is Mam’selle Diane?”

“Mam’selle Diane is the daughter of Madame d’Hautreve vhat live all
alone in the leetle shut-up house. Madame and Mam’selle Diane, they
are _noblesse_, of the nobility. Vell, you don’t know vhat is that.
_Attendez_, I vill try to make you understand.”

“Is it rich?” asked Lady Jane, anxious to help simplify the situation.

“Oh no, no, they are vairy, vairy poor; _noblesse_ is vhat you’re born
vith.”

“Like the spine in the back,” suggested Lady Jane eagerly. “Pepsie says
you’re born with that.”

“No, it’s not that,” and Gex smiled a grim, puzzled smile, and
pushing his spectacles on the top of his head, he wiped his forehead
thoughtfully. “You’ve heard of the king, my leetle lady, now haven’t
you.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” returned Lady Jane brightly.

“They wear crowns and sit on thrones, and Pepsie says there is a king
of the carnival, King Rex.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Gex, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, “and
the king is vay up high over everybody, and all the peoples must honor
the king. Vell, the _noblesse_ is something like the king, my leetle
lady, only not quite so high up. Vell, Mam’selle’s _grandpère_ vas a
noble. One of the French _noblesse_. Does my leetle lady understand?”

“I think I do,” returned Lady Jane doubtfully. “Does she sit on a
throne and wear a crown?”

“Oh, no, no, no, they are poor, vairy poor,” said Gex humbly, “and
then, my leetle lady must know that the _comte_ is naiver so high up as
the king, and then they have lost all their money and are poor, vairy
poor. Once, long ago, they vas rich, oh, vairy rich, and they had one
big, grand house, and the carriage, and the fine horses, and many,
many servant; now there’s only them two vhat lives all alone in the
leetle house. The _grandpère_, and the _père_, all are dead long ago,
and Madame d’Hautreve and Mam’selle Diane only are left to live in the
leetle house, shut up behind that high fence, alone, alvay alone. And,
my leetle lady, no one remembers them, I don’t believe, for it is ten
year I’ve been right in this Rue des Bons Enfants, and I naiver have
seen no one entair that gate, and no one comes out of it vairy often.
Mam’selle Diane must clean her _banquette_ in the dark of the night,
for I’ve naiver seen her do it. I’ve vatched, but I have seen her,
naiver. Sometime, when it is vairy early, Mam’selle Diane comes to my
leetle shop for one dime of orange for Madam d’Hautreve, she is vairy
old and so poor. Ah, but she is one of the _noblesse_, the genuine
French _noblesse_, and Mam’selle Diane is so polite vhen she come to my
leetle shop.”

“If I should go there early, very early,” asked Lady Jane with
increasing interest, “and wait there all day, don’t you think I might
see her come out? You might, my leetle lady, and you might not. About
once in the month, Mam’selle Diane comes out all in the black dress and
veil, and one little black basket on her arm, and she goes up toward
Rue Royale. Vhen she goes out the basket it is heavy, vhen she comes
back it is light.”

“What does she carry in it, Mr. Gex?” asked Lady Jane, her eyes large
and her voice awe-stricken over the mysterious contents of the basket.

“Ah, I know not, my leetle lady. It is one mystery,” returned Gex
solemnly. “Mam’selle is so proud and so shut up that no one can’t find
out anything. Poor lady, and vhen does she do her market, and vhat do
they eat, for all I evair see her buy is one nickel of bread, and one
nickel of milk.”

“But she’s got flowers and birds, and she plays on the piano and
sings,” said Lady Jane reflectively. “Perhaps she isn’t hungry and
doesn’t want anything to eat.”

“That may be so, my leetle lady,” replied Gex with smiling approval,
“I naiver thought of it, but it may be so—it may be so. Perhaps the
_noblesse_ don’t have the big appetite, and don’t want so much to eat
as the common people.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot, Mr. Gex, Pepsie wants a nickel of cabbage,” and
Lady Jane suddenly returned to earth and earthly things did her errand,
took her _lagniappe_, and went away.




CHAPTER XIV

LADY JANE VISITS THE D’HAUTREVES


One morning Lady Jane was rewarded for her patient waiting; as usual,
she was lingering on the sidewalk near the green fence, when she heard
the key turn in the lock, and suddenly the door opened, and an elderly
lady, very tall and thin, with a mild, pale face, appeared and beckoned
her to approach.

For a moment Lady Jane felt shy, and drew back, fearing that she had
been a little rude in haunting the place so persistently; besides, to
her knowledge, she had never before stood in the presence of “genuine
French nobility,” and the pale, solemn looking woman, who, in spite of
her rusty gown, had an air of distinction, rather awed her. However,
her good breeding soon got the better of her timidity, and she went
forward with a charming smile.

“Would you like to come in, my dear, and look at my flowers?” said the
lady, opening the gate a little wider for Lady Jane to enter.

“Yes, thank you,” and Lady Jane smiled and flushed with pleasure when
she caught a glimpse of the beautiful vista beyond the dark figure.
“May I bring Tony in, too?”

“Certainly, I want to see him very much, but I want to see you more,”
and she laid her hand caressingly on the beautiful head of the child.
“I’ve been watching you for some time.”

“Have you? Why, how did you see me?” and Lady Jane dimpled with smiles.

“Oh, through a little chink in my fence; I see more than any one would
think,” replied the lady smiling.

“And you saw me waiting and waiting; oh, why didn’t you ask me in
before? I’ve wanted to come in so much, and did you know I’d been here
singing with you?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Are you Mam’selle Diane?”

“Yes, I am Mam’selle Diane; and what is your name?”

“I’m called Lady Jane.”

“_Lady_ Jane,—_Lady?_ Why, do you know that you have a title of
nobility?”

“But I’m not one of the nobility. It’s my name, just Lady Jane. Papa
always called me Lady Jane. I didn’t know what nobility was, and Mr.
Gex told me that you were one. Now I’ll never forget what it is, but
I’m not one.”

“You’re a very sweet little girl, all the same,” said Mam’selle Diane,
a smile breaking over her grave face. “Come in, I want to show you and
your bird to mama.”

Lady Jane followed her guide across a small, spotless side gallery into
a tiny room of immaculate cleanliness, where, sitting in an easy-chair
near a high bed, was an old, old lady, the oldest person Lady Jane had
ever seen, with hair as white as snow, combed back from a delicate,
shrunken face and covered with a little black silk cap.

“Mama, this is the little girl with the bird of whom I’ve been telling
you,” said Mam’selle Diane, leading her forward. “And, Lady Jane, this
is my mother, Madame d’Hautreve.”

The old lady shook hands with the child and patted her head
caressingly; then she asked, in a weak, quavering voice, if the bird
wasn’t too heavy for the little girl to carry.

“Oh, no, Madame,” replied Lady Jane, brightly. “Tony’s large, he grows
very fast, but he isn’t heavy, he’s all feathers, he’s very light;
would you like to take him?”

“Oh, no, no, my dear, oh no,” said the old lady, drawing back timidly.
“I shouldn’t like to touch it, but I should like to see it walk. I
suppose it’s a crane, isn’t it?”

“He’s a blue heron, and he’s not a common bird,” replied Lady Jane,
repeating her little formula, readily and politely.

“I see that it’s different from a crane,” said Mam’selle Diane, looking
at Tony critically, who, now that his mistress had put him down, stood
on one leg very much humped up, and making, on the whole, rather an
ungainly figure.

“Tony always will do that before strangers,” observed Lady Jane
apologetically. “When I want him to walk about and show his feathers,
he just draws himself up and stands on one leg.”

“However, he is very pretty and very odd. Don’t you think I might
succeed in copying him?” And Mam’selle Diane turned an anxious glance
on her mother.

“I don’t know, my dear,” quavered the old lady, “his legs are so long
that they would break easily if they were made of sealing-wax.”

[Illustration: LADY JANE IS PRESENTED TO MADAME D’HAUTREVE]

“I think I could use a wire with the sealing-wax,” said Mam’selle
Diane, thoughtfully regarding Tony’s leg. “You see there would be only
one.”

“I know, my dear, but the wool; you’ve got no wool the color of his
feathers.”

“Madame Jourdain would send for it.”

“But, Diane, think of the risk; if you shouldn’t succeed, you’d waste
the wool, and you do the ducks so well, really, my dear, I think you’d
better be satisfied with the ducks and the canaries.”

“Mama, it would be something new, something original. I’m tired of
ducks and canaries.”

“Well, my dear, I sha’n’t oppose you, if you think you can succeed,
but it’s a great risk to start out with an entirely new model, and you
can’t use the wool for the ducks if you should fail; you must think of
that, my dear, whether you can afford to lose the wool, if you fail.”

While this conversation was going on between Mam’selle Diane and her
mother, Lady Jane’s bright eyes were taking in the contents of the
little room. It was very simply furnished, the floor was bare, and the
walls were destitute of adornment, save over the small fireplace, where
hung a fine portrait of a very handsome man dressed in a rich court
dress of the time of Louis XIV. This elegant courtier was Mam’selle
Diane’s grandfather, the Count d’Hautreve, and under this really fine
work of art, on the small mantelpiece, was some of the handicraft of
his impoverished granddaughter, which fascinated Lady Jane to such a
degree that she had neither eyes nor ears for anything else.

The center of the small shelf was ornamented with a tree made of a
variety of shades of green wool over a wire frame, and apparently
hopping about among the foliage, on little sealing-wax legs, with black
bead eyes and sealing-wax bills, were a number of little wool birds of
every color under the sun, while at each end of the mantel were similar
little trees, one loaded with soft yellow canaries, the other with
little fluffy white things of a species to puzzle an ornithologist.
Lady Jane thought they were adorable, and her fingers almost ached to
caress them.

“Oh, how pretty they are!” she sighed, at length, quite overcome with
admiration; “how soft and yellow! Why, they are like real live birds,
and they’re ever so much prettier than Tony,” she added, glancing
ruefully at her homely pet; “but then they can’t hop and fly and come
when you call them.”

Madame d’Hautreve and Mam’selle Diane witnessed her delight with much
satisfaction. It seemed a tardy, but genuine, recognition of genius.

“There, you see, my dear, that I was right, I’ve always said it,”
quavered the old lady. “I’ve always said that your birds were
wonderful, and the child sees it; children tell the truth, they are
sincere in their praise, and when they discover merit, they acknowledge
it simply and truthfully. I’ve always said that all you needed to give
you a reputation was recognition,—I’ve always said it, if you remember;
but show her the ducks, my dear, show her the ducks. I think, if
possible, that they are more natural than the others.”

Mam’selle Diane’s sad, grave face lighted up a little as she led the
child to a table near the side window, which was covered with pieces
of colored flannel, sticks of sealing-wax, and bunches of soft yellow
wool. In this table was a drawer which she drew out carefully, and
there on little scalloped flannel mats of various colors sat a number
of small yellow downy ducklings.

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed Lady Jane, not able to find other words at the
moment to express her wonder and delight.

“Would you like to hold one?” asked Mam’selle Diane, taking one out.

Lady Jane held out her pink palm, and rapturously smoothed down its
little woolly back with her soft fingers. “Oh, how pretty, how pretty!”
she repeated in a half-suppressed tone.

“Yes, I think they are rather pretty,” said Mam’selle Diane modestly,
“but then they are so useful.”

“What are they for?” asked Lady Jane in surprise; she could not think
they were made for any other purpose than for ornament.

“They are pen-wipers, my dear. You see, the pen is wiped with the
little cloth mat they are sitting on.”

Yes, they were pen-wipers; Mademoiselle Diane d’Hautreve, granddaughter
of the Count d’Hautreve, made little woolen ducklings for pen-wipers,
and sold them quite secretly to Madame Jourdain, on the Rue Royale, in
order to have bread for her aged mother and herself.

Lady Jane unknowingly had solved the financial mystery connected with
the d’Hautreve ladies, and at the same time she had made another
valuable friend for herself.




CHAPTER XV

LADY JANE FINDS A MUSIC-TEACHER


On the occasion of Lady Jane’s first visit to the d’Hautreve ladies,
she had been so interested in Mam’selle Diane’s works of art that she
had paid no attention whatever to the piano and the flowers.

But on the second visit, while Tony was posing as a model (for suddenly
he had developed great perfection in that capacity), she critically
examined the ancient instrument.

Presently she asked a little timidly, “Is that what you make music on
when you sing, Mam’selle Diane?”

Mam’selle Diane nodded an affirmative. She was very busy modeling
Tony’s leg in sealing-wax.

“Is it a piano?”

“Yes, my dear, it’s a piano. Did you never see one before?”

“Oh yes, and I’ve played on one. Mama used to let me play on hers; but
it was large, very large, and not like this.”

“Where was that?” asked Mam’selle Diane, while a swift glance passed
between her and her mother.

“Oh, that was on the ranch, before we came away.”

“Then you lived on a ranch. Where was it, my dear?”

“I don’t know,” and Lady Jane looked puzzled. “It was just the ranch.
It was in the country, and there were fields and fields, and a great
many horses, and sheep, and lambs—dear little lambs!”

“Then the lady you live with is not your mama,” said Mam’selle Diane
casually, while she twisted the sealing-wax into the shape of the foot.

“Oh, no, she’s my Tante Pauline. My mama has gone away, but Pepsie says
she’s sure to come back before Christmas; and it’s not very long now
till Christmas.” The little face grew radiant with expectation.

“And you like music?” said Mam’selle Diane, with a sigh; she saw how
it was, and she pitied the motherless darling from the bottom of her
tender heart.

“Didn’t you ever hear me sing when I used to stand close to the
window?” Lady Jane leaned across Mam’selle Diane’s table, and looked
at her with a winsome smile. “I sang as loud as I could, so you’d hear
me; I thought, perhaps, you’d let me in.”

“Dear little thing!” returned Mam’selle Diane, caressingly. Then she
turned and spoke in French to her mother: “You know, mama, I wanted to
ask her in before, but you thought she might meddle with my wools and
annoy me; but she’s not troublesome at all. I wish I could teach her
music when I have time.”

Lady Jane glanced from one to the other gravely and anxiously. “I’m
learning French,” she said; “Pepsie’s teaching me, and when I learn it
you can always talk to me in French. I know some words now.”

Mam’selle Diane smiled. “I was telling mama that I should like to teach
you music. Would you like to learn?”

“What, to play on the piano?” and the child’s eyes glistened with
delight.

“Yes, to play and sing, both.”

“I can sing now,” with a little, shy, wistful smile.

“Well then, sing for us while I finish Tony’s leg, and afterward I will
sing for you.”

“Shall I sing, ‘Sleep, baby, sleep’?”

“Yes, anything you like.”

Lady Jane lifted her little face, flushed like a flower, but still
serious and anxious, and broke into a ripple of melody so clear, so
sweet, and so delicately modulated, that Mam’selle Diane clasped
her hands in ecstasy. She forgot her bunch of wool, the difficulty
of Tony’s breast-feathers, the impossible sealing-wax leg, and sat
listening enchanted; while the old lady closed her eyes and swayed back
and forth, keeping time with the dreamy rhythm of the lullaby.

“Why, my dear, you have the voice of an angel!” exclaimed Mam’selle
Diane, when the child finished. “I must teach you. You _must_ be
taught. Mama, she _must_ be taught. It would be wicked to allow such a
voice to go uncultivated!”

“And what can cultivation do that nature hasn’t done?” asked the old
lady querulously. “Sometimes, I think too much cultivation ruins a
voice. Think of yours, Diane; think of what it was before all that
drilling and training; think of what it was that night you sang
at Madame La Baronne’s, when your cousin from France, the Marquis
d’Hautreve, said he had never listened to such a voice!”

“It was the youth in it, mama, the youth; I was only sixteen,” and
Mam’selle Diane sighed over the memory of those days.

“It was before all the freshness was cultivated out of it. You never
sang so well afterward.”

“I never was as young, mama, and I never had such an audience again.
You know I went back to the convent; and when I came out things had
changed, and I was older, and—I had changed. I think the change was in
me.”

Here a tear stole from the faded eyes that had looked on such triumphs.

“It is true, my dear, you never had such an opportunity again. Your
cousin went back to France—and—and—there were no more _fêtes_ after
those days, and there was no one left to recognize your talent. Perhaps
it was as much the lack of recognition as anything else. Yes, I say, as
I always have said, that it’s recognition you need to make you famous.
It’s the same with your birds as with your singing. It’s recognition
you need.”

“And perhaps it’s wealth too, mama,” said Mam’selle Diane gently. “One
is forgotten when one is poor. Why, we have been as good as dead and
buried these twenty years. I believe there’s no one left who remembers
us.”

“No, no, my child; it’s not that,” cried the old lady sharply. “We are
always d’Hautreves. It was our own choice to give up society; and we
live so far away, it is inconvenient,—so few of our old friends keep
carriages now; and besides, we have no day to receive. It was a mistake
giving up our reception-day; since then people haven’t visited us.”

“I was thinking, mama,” said Mam’selle Diane timidly, “that if I did
as well with my ducks next year as I have this, we might have a ‘day’
again. We might send cards, and let our old friends know that we are
still alive.”

“We might, we might,” said the old lady, brightening visibly. “We are
always d’Hautreves”; then her face fell suddenly. “But, Diane, my dear,
we haven’t either of us a silk dress, and it would never do for us to
receive in anything but silk.”

“That’s true, mama. I never thought of that. We may not be able to have
a ‘day,’ after all,” and Mam’selle Diane bent her head dejectedly over
her sealing-wax and wool.

While these reminiscences were exchanged by the mother and daughter,
Lady Jane, whose singing had called them forth, slipped out into the
small garden, where, amid a profusion of bloom and fragrance, she was
now listening to the warbling of a canary whose cage hung among the
branches of a Maréchal Niel rose. It was the bird whose melody had
enraptured her, while she was yet without the paradise, and it was the
effigy of that same bird that she had seen on Mam’selle Diane’s green
woolen trees. He was a bright, jolly little fellow, and he sang as if
he were wound up and never would run down.

Lady Jane listened to him delightedly while she inspected the beds
of flowers. It was a little place, but contained a great variety of
plants, and each was carefully trained and trimmed; and under all the
seedlings were laid little sheets of white paper on which some seeds
had already fallen.

Lady Jane eyed the papers curiously. She did not know that these tiny
black seeds added yearly a few dollars to the d’Hautreve revenues, and,
at the same time, furnished the thrifty gardener with all she needed
for her own use. But whose hands pruned and trained, dug and watered?
Were they the hands of the myth of a servant who came so early before
madame was out of her bed—for the old aristocrat loved to sleep late—to
clean the gallery and _banquette_ and do other odd jobs unbecoming a
d’Hautreve?

Yes, the very same; and Mam’selle Diane was not an early riser because
of sleeplessness, nor was it age that made her slender hands so hard
and brown.




CHAPTER XVI

PEPSIE IS JEALOUS


When Mam’selle Diane joined Lady Jane in the garden, she had gained her
mother’s consent to give the child a music lesson once a week. The old
lady had been querulous and difficult; she had discussed and objected,
but finally Mam’selle Diane had overcome her prejudices.

“You don’t know what kind of people her relatives are,” the old lady
said, complainingly, “and if we once open our doors to the child the
aunt may try to crowd in. We don’t want to make any new acquaintances.
There’s one satisfaction we still have, that, although we are poor,
_very_ poor, we are always d’Hautreves, and we always have been
exclusive, and I hope we always shall be. As soon as we allow those
people to break down the barrier between us, they will rush in on us,
and, in a little while, they will forget who we are.”

“Never fear, mama; if the aunt is as well bred as the child, she will
not annoy us. If we wish to know her, we shall probably have to make
the first advances, for, judging by the child, they are not common
people. I have never seen so gentle and polite a little girl. I’m sure
she’ll be no trouble.”

“I don’t know about that. Children are natural gossips, and she is very
intelligent for her age. She will notice everything, and the secret of
your birds will get out.”

“Well, mama dear, if you feel that she will be an intrusion upon our
privacy, I won’t insist; but I should so like to have her, just for
two hours, say, once a week. It would give me a new interest; it would
renew my youth to hear her angelic little voice sometimes.”

“Oh, I suppose you must have your way, Diane, as you always do. Young
people nowadays have no respect for the prejudices of age. We must
yield all our traditions and habits to their new-fashioned ideas, or
else we are severe and tyrannical.”

“Oh, mama, dear mama, I’m sure you’re a little, just a little, unkind
now,” said Mam’selle Diane, soothingly. “I’ll give it up at once if
you really wish it; but I don’t think you do. I’m sure the child will
interest you; besides, I’m getting on so well with the bird—you
wouldn’t have me give up my model, would you?”

“Certainly not, my dear. If you need her, let her come. At least you
can try for a while, and if you find her troublesome, and the lessons a
task, you can stop them when you like.”

When this not very gracious consent was obtained, Mam’selle Diane
hastened to tell Lady Jane that, if her aunt approved, she could come
to her every Saturday, from one to three, when she would teach her the
piano, as well as singing; and that after the lesson, if she liked to
remain awhile in the garden with the birds and flowers, she was at
liberty to do so.

Lady Jane fairly flew to tell Pepsie the good news; but, much to her
surprise, her merry and practical friend burst into tears and hid her
face on the table among the pecan shells.

“Why, Pepsie—dear, dear Pepsie, what ails you?” cried Lady Jane, in an
agony of terror, “tell me what ails you?” and, dropping Tony, she laid
her little face among the shells and cried too.

“I’m—I’m—jealous,” said Pepsie, looking up after a while, and rubbing
her eyes furiously. “I’m a fool, I know, but I can’t help it; I don’t
want her to have you. I don’t want you to go there. Those fine, proud
people will teach you to look down on us. We’re poor, my mother sells
pralines, and the people that live behind that green fence are too
proud and fine to notice any one in this street. They’ve lived here
ever since I was born, and no one’s seen them, because they’ve kept to
themselves always; and now, when I’ve just got you to love, they want
to take you away, they want to teach you to—_despise_—us!” and Pepsie
stumbled over the unusual word in her passionate vehemence, while she
still cried and rubbed angrily.

“But don’t cry, Pepsie,” entreated Lady Jane. “I don’t love Mam’selle
Diane as well as I love you. It’s the music, the singing. Oh, Pepsie,
dear, dear Pepsie, let me learn music, and I’ll be good and love you
_dearly_!”

“No,—no, you won’t, you won’t care any more for me,” insisted Pepsie,
the little demon of jealousy raging to such a degree that she was quite
ready to be unjust, as well as unreasonable.

“Are you cross at me, Pepsie?” and Lady Jane crept almost across the
table to cling tearfully to her friend’s neck. “Don’t be cross, and I
won’t go to Mam’selle Diane. I won’t learn music, and, Pepsie, dear,
I’ll—I’ll—give you Tony!”

This was the extreme of renunciation, and it touched the generous heart
of the girl to the very quick. “You dear little angel!” she cried
with a sudden revulsion of feeling, clasping and kissing the child
passionately. “You’re as sweet and good as you can be, and I’m wicked
and selfish! Yes, wicked and selfish. It’s for your good, and I’m
trying to keep you away. You ought to hate me for being so mean.”

At this moment Tite Souris entered, and, seeing the traces of tears on
her mistress’s cheeks, broke out in stern, reproachful tones.

“Miss Lady, what’s you be’n a-doin’ to my Miss Peps’? You done made her
cry. I see how she’s be’n a-gwine on. You jes’ look out, or her ma’ll
git a’ter you, ef yer makes dat po’ crooked gal cry dat a-way.”

“Hush, Tite,” cried Pepsie, “you needn’t blame Miss Lady. It was my
fault. I was wicked and selfish, I didn’t want her to go to Mam’selle
Diane. I was jealous, that’s all.”

“Pepsie cried because she thought I wouldn’t love her,” put in Lady
Jane, in an explanatory tone, quite ignoring Tite’s burst of loyalty.
“Mam’selle Diane is nobility—French nobility—and Pepsie thought I’d be
proud, and love Mam’selle best,—didn’t you, Pepsie?”

“Now, jes’ hear dat chile,” cried Tite, scornfully. “If dey _is_
nobil’ty, dey is po’ white trash. Shore’s I live, dat tall lean one
wat look lak a graveyard figger, she git outen her bed ’fore sun-up,
an’ brick her _banquette_ her own se’f. I done seed her, one mornin’;
she war a-scrubbin’ lak mad. An’ bress yer, honey, she done had a
veil on; so no one won’t know her. Shore’s I live, she done brick her
_banquette_ wid a veil on.”

“If she cleans the _banquette_ herself, they must be very poor,” was
Pepsie’s logical conclusion. “Perhaps, after all, they’re not so proud;
only they don’t want people to know how poor they are. And, Tite,
don’t you tell that on the poor lady. You know it’s just one of your
stories about her having a veil on. It may have been some one else. You
couldn’t tell who it was, if she had a veil on, as you say.”

This argument did not in the least shake Tite Souris in her conviction
that she had seen the granddaughter of the Count d’Hautreve bricking
her _banquette_ before “sun-up” with a veil over her face.

However, Lady Jane and Pepsie were reconciled, and the little cripple,
to show her confidence in the child’s affection, was now as anxious to
have her go to Mam’selle Diane and learn music, as she was averse to it
before.

“Yes, Lady dear, I want you to learn to play on the piano, and I’ll
tell you what I’ve been thinking of,” said Pepsie as they leaned
confidentially toward each other across the table, “mama has some money
in the bank. She’s been saving it to get something for me. You know,
she does everything I want her to do. I wanted to learn to read, and
she had a teacher come to me every day until I could read and write
very well, so I’m sure she’ll do this, if I want her to; and this is
what it is: She must buy a piano to put right there in that space next
to bed.”

“For me to play on? Oh, Pepsie, how lovely!” and Lady Jane clasped her
hands with delight.

“And you can practise all the time,” continued the practical Pepsie.
“You know, if you ever learn music well you must practise a great deal.
Cousin Marie practised three hours a day in the convent. And then, when
you are grown up, you’ll sing in the cathedral, and earn a great deal
of money; and you can buy a beautiful white satin dress, all trimmed
down the front with lace, and they will ask you to sing in the French
Opera, on Rue Bourbon; and every one will bring you flowers, and rings
and bracelets, and jewels, and you’ll be just like a queen.”

“And sit on a throne, and wear a crown?” gasped Lady Jane, her eyes
wide and sparkling, and her cheeks flushed over the glories of Pepsie’s
riotous imagination.

“Yes,” said Pepsie. Now that she had started she meant to give full
rein to her fancy. “And every one will be ready to worship you, and
you’ll ride out in a blue carriage, with eight white horses.”

“Oh, oh!” interrupted Lady Jane rapturously; “and you’ll go with me,
and it will be just as good as riding in Tante Modeste’s milk cart.”

“Better, much better,” agreed Pepsie, quite willing, in her present
mood, to admit that there was something better; “and then you’ll have a
big, big house in the country, with grass, and trees, and flowers, and
a fountain that will tinkle, tinkle all the time.”

“And you and Mama Madelon will live with me always.” Here a sudden
shadow passed over the bright little face, and the wide eyes grew very
wistful. “And, Pepsie, perhaps God will let papa and mama come and live
with me again.”

[Illustration: “YES, LADY DEAR, I WANT YOU TO LEARN TO PLAY ON THE
PIANO, AND I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I’VE BEEN THINKING OF,” SAID PEPSIE]

“Perhaps so, dear,” returned Pepsie with quick sympathy. “When I say my
prayers, I’ll ask.”

Presently Lady Jane said softly, with an anxious glance at Pepsie, “You
know, you told me that mama might come back before Christmas. It’s
nearly Christmas, isn’t it? Oh, I wish I could know if she was coming
back! Can’t you ask your cards, Pepsie? Perhaps they’ll tell if she’ll
come.”

“I’ll try,” replied Pepsie, “yes, I’ll try; but sometimes they won’t
tell.”

When Lady Jane asked permission of Madame Jozain to study music with
Mam’selle Diane, Tante Pauline consented readily. In fact, she was
overjoyed. It was no common honor to have one’s niece instructed by
a d’Hautreve, and it was another feather in her much beplumed cap.
By and by people would think more of her and treat her with greater
consideration. When she was once intimate with the d’Hautreve ladies,
the neighbors wouldn’t dare turn the cold shoulder to her; for through
their interest in the child she expected to gain a foothold for
herself; but she had yet to learn how very exclusive a d’Hautreve could
be, under certain circumstances.




CHAPTER XVII

LADY JANE’S DANCING-MASTER


Among all Lady Jane’s friends there was no one who congratulated her
on her good fortune with half the enthusiasm and warmth displayed by
little Gex.

“Vell, vell, my dear leetle lady,” he said, rubbing his small hands
delightedly. “Vhy, you are in luck, and no mistake! To have such a
teacher for the music as Mam’selle Diane d’Hautreve is as good as
a fortune to you. She’ll give you the true style,—the style of the
French nobility, the only style vhat is good. I know just vhat that is.
Peoples think old Gex knows nothing; but they’re mistaken, leetle lady;
they’re mistaken. They don’t know vhat I vas once. There isn’t nothing
in music that Gex hasn’t heard. I’ve seen everything fine, and I’ve
heard everything fine, vhen I used to be alvays at the French opera.”

“Oh, were you in the French opera?” interrupted Lady Jane, with
sparkling eyes; “that’s where Pepsie says I shall sing, and I’m going
to have flowers and—and a throne, and—oh, I don’t remember; but
everything, _everything_!” she added impressively, summing it all up in
one blissful whole.

“Vell, I shouldn’t vonder, I shouldn’t vonder,” said Gex, looking at
her proudly, with his head on one side, much like an antiquated crow,
“for you’ve got one voice already vhat vould make soft the heart of one
stone.”

“Oh, Mr. Gex, where did _you_ hear me sing?” and Lady Jane looked at
him with grave surprise. “I never sang for any one but Pepsie, and
Mam’selle Diane, and you weren’t there.”

“But I’ve heard you sing; I’ve heard you, my leetle lady,” insisted
the old man, with twinkling eyes. “It vas one morning vhen you vas
a-singing vith Mam’selle Diane, outside on the _banquette_. I stepped
out, and there I heard you sing like one leetle bird; but you didn’t
know I vas a-listening.”

“No, I didn’t know it,” said Lady Jane, smiling brightly again. “I’m
glad you heard me, and some day I’ll sing, ‘Sleep, baby, sleep,’ for
you if you’d like to hear it.”

Mr. Gex assured her that he would, and added that he adored the music.
“I haven’t heard the fine music for many years,” he remarked, with a
little sigh, “and I used to be just crazed for it; but I vas different
then, leetle lady, I vas different; you vouldn’t think it, but I vas
different.”

“You didn’t wear a handkerchief over your ears then, did you, Mr. Gex?”

“No, no, my leetle lady; it vas the ear-ache vat made me tie up my ear.”

“Did you wear an apron, and did you sew?” continued Lady Jane, very
curious to know in what ways he was different.

“Vear an apron!” exclaimed Gex, holding up his hands. “Vhy, bless your
leetle heart, I dressed like one gentleman. I vore the black clothes,
fine and glossy. I vas one neat leetle man. My hair vas black and curly
and, you von’t believe it, I’m afraid you von’t believe it, but I vore
the silk hose, and leetle fine shoes tied vith one ribbon, and one
gold chain across my vaistcoat, and one ring on that finger,” and Gex
touched one of his hard and shrunken digits my way of emphasis.

“Did you, Mr. Gex,—oh, did you?” and Lady Jane’s eyes glistened, and
her little face was one smile of delight. “Oh, how nice you must have
looked! But you didn’t have a fruit-stall then?”

“No, indeed; no, indeed; I vas in one fine business. I vas fashionable
then; I vas one fine leetle gentleman.”

“Mr. Gex, what did you do?” cried Lady Jane, in a little, shrill,
impetuous voice, for her curiosity had reached the climax. “I want to
know what you did, when you curled your hair and wore a gold chain.”

“I vas one professeur, leetle lady. I vas one professeur.”

“One professeur! Oh, what is one professeur?” cried Lady Jane
impatiently.

“He is one gentleman vhat does teach.”

“Then you taught music. Oh, I’ve guessed it,—you taught music,” and
Lady Jane looked at him admiringly. “Now I know why you like it so
much!”

“No, no, leetle lady. It vas not the music. It vas the sister to the
music; it vas the dance. I vas professeur of the dance. Think of that,
of the dance. So nimble, so quick; see, like this,” and little Gex,
carried away by the memory of his former triumphs, took hold of the
sides of his apron and made two or three quaint, fantastic steps,
ending them with a little pirouette and a low bow which enchanted Lady
Jane.

“Oh, how funny, how funny! Please do it again—won’t you, Mr. Gex? Oh,
do, _do_!”

Gex smiled indulgently, but shook his head. “No, no, leetle lady. Once
is enough, just to show you how nimble and quick one professeur of the
dance can be; but then I vas young and supple, and full of life. I vas
running over vith life; I vas one fine leetle gentleman, so springy and
light, and I vas all the fashion. Vould you believe it, leetle lady? I
had one fine grand house on Rue Royale, and all the rich peoples, and
all the noblesse, and all the leetle gentlemen and the small leetle
ladies like you came to the ‘Professeur Gex’ to learn the dance.”

“But why, why, Mr. Gex, did you leave the Rue Royale?” asked Lady
Jane, greatly puzzled at his changed condition, and anxious to know by
what strange freak of destiny he had been brought to sell fruit and
vegetables in Good Children Street, to wear an apron, and to mend his
own stockings.

“Ah, vell, my leetle lady, it vas many things vhat brought me to here,”
he replied, with a sigh of resignation. “You see, I did not stay the
fashion. I got old, and the rheumatism made me slow and stiff, and I
vas no more such a fine, light leetle gentleman. I could not jump and
turn so nimble and quick, and a new professeur came from Paris, and to
him vent all my pupils. I had no money, because I vas vairy fond of
good living and I lived high like one gentleman; and so ven I vas old I
vas poor, and there vas nothing but to sell the fruit and vegetables in
Good Children Street.”

“Oh, dear, dear, what a pity!” sighed Lady Jane regretfully. To think
that the mighty had fallen so low touched her loyal little heart, and
brought the tears of sympathy to her blue eyes.

“Naiver mind, naiver mind. You see I vas old, and I could not teach the
dance alvay; but _attendez_, my leetle lady, listen to vhat I say,” and
he clasped his hands persuasively, and turned his head on one side, his
little twinkling eyes full of entreaty. “Vould you now, vould you like
to learn the dance? I’m old, and I’m no more so nimble and light, but I
know the steps, all the fine steps, and my leetle lady must learn the
dance some time. Von’t you let me teach you how to take the fine leetle
steps?”

“Oh, Mr. Gex, _will_ you?” cried Lady Jane, jumping down from her
chair, with a flushed, eager face, and standing in front of the little
dancing-master. “Do, do!—I’m all ready. Teach them to me now!”

“Vell, that is all right, stand as you are, and I vill begin just now,”
said Gex, beaming with pleasure, while he hurriedly rolled his aprons
up under his armpits, and pushed his spectacles well on the top of his
bald head. “Now, now, leetle lady, turn out your toes, take hold of
your skirt, just so. Right foot, left foot, just so. Vatch me. Right
foot, left foot. One, two, three. Right foot, one, two; left foot,
one, two, three; half around, one, two, three; just so, vatch me. Back
again, half around, one, two, one two—oh, good, good, vairy good! My
leetle lady, you vill learn the dance so vell!”

It was a delicious picture that they made in the dingy little shop,
surrounded by fruit and vegetables. Lady Jane, with her yellow flying
hair, her radiant rosy face, her gracious head coquettishly set on one
side, her sparkling blue eyes fixed on Gex, her dainty little fingers
holding out her short skirt, her slender, graceful legs and tiny feet
advancing and retreating in shy mincing steps, turning and whirling
with a graceful swaying motion first on one side, then the other,
right in front of Gex, who, with a face of preternatural gravity, held
out his loose trousers’ legs, and turned his small brogans to the
correct angle, while he went through all the intricate steps of a first
dancing-lesson in the quaint, old-fashioned style of fifty years ago,
every movement being closely followed by the child with a grace and
spirit really charming.

When the lesson was over, and Lady Jane ran to tell her friend of this
latest stroke of good fortune, Pepsie showed all her white teeth in a
broad smile of satisfaction.

“Well, Lady,” she said, “you _are_ a lucky child. You’ve not only found
a music-teacher, but you’ve found a dancing-master.”




CHAPTER XVIII

LADY JANE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS


Christmas came and went; and whatever hopes, desires, or regrets
filled the loving little heart of Lady Jane, the child kept them to
herself, and was outwardly as bright and cheerful as on other days,
although Pepsie, who watched her closely, thought that she detected
a wistfulness in her eyes, and, at times, a sad note in the music of
her happy voice. If the affection that finds expression in numerous
Christmas gifts can make a child contented, Lady Jane had certainly no
reason to complain.

The first thing on which her eyes fell when she awoke was her
stockings, the slender legs very much swollen and bulged, hanging
in madame’s chimney-corner, waiting to be relieved of their undue
expansion. Even Raste—the extravagant and impecunious Raste—had
remembered her; for a very dressy doll, with a French-gilt bangle
encircling its waist (the bangle being intended not for the doll, but
for Lady Jane), bore a card on which was inscribed in bold characters,
“M. Adraste Jozain,” and underneath the name, “A mery Crismus.” Adraste
was very proud of his English, and as Lady Jane was more grateful
than critical it passed muster. Then there was a basket of fruit from
Gex, and beside the basket nestled a little yellow duckling which
came from Mam’selle Diane, as Lady Jane knew without looking at the
tiny old-fashioned card attached to it. And, after she had been made
happy at home, she still had another pleasure in store, for Pepsie,
wishing to witness the pleasure of her little friend, had the Paichoux
presents, with her own and Madelon’s, beautifully arranged on her
table, and carefully covered, until the important moment of unveiling.
Every Paichoux had remembered Lady Jane, and a finer array of picture
books, dolls, and toys was never spread before a happier child; but the
presents which pleased her most were a small music box from Madelon, a
tiny silver thimble from Pepsie, and Mam’selle Diane’s little duckling.
These she kept always among her treasures.

“The day _I_ like best,” said Pepsie, after Lady Jane had exhausted all
the adjectives expressive of admiration, “is the _jour de l’an_, New
Year’s, as you call it. Then Tante Modeste and the children come and
bring bonbons and fireworks, and the street is lighted from one end to
the other, and the sky is full of rockets and Roman candles, and there
is so much noise, and every one is merry—because the New Year has come.”

At that moment, Tite Souris entered with an expressive grin on her
ebony face, and an air of great mystery:

“Here you, chil’runs, I done got yer Crismus; doan’ say nufin ’bout it,
’cause ’t ain’t nufin’ much. I ain’t got no money ter buy dolls an’
sech; so I jes bought yer boaf a ‘stage-plank.’ I lowed yer might lak a
‘stage plank.’”

Unfolding a large yellow paper, she laid a huge sheet of coarse black
ginger-bread on the table among Lady Jane’s treasures.

“Thank you, Tite,” said Lady Jane, eyeing the strange object askance.
“What is it?”

“Oh Lor’, Miss Lady, ain’t ye neber seed a ‘stage plank’? It’s ter eat.
It’s _good_,—ain’t it, Miss Peps’?”

“I don’t know, Tite; I never ate one,” replied Pepsie, smiling broadly,
“but I dare say it’s good. It’s kind of you to think of us, and we’ll
try it by and by.”

“Dear me!” said Pepsie, after Tite, who was grinning with satisfaction,
had left the room. “What shall we do with it? We can’t eat it.”

“Perhaps Tony will,” exclaimed Lady Jane, eagerly. “He will eat almost
anything. He ate all Tante Pauline’s shrimps, the other day, and he
swallowed two live toads in Mam’selle Diane’s garden. Oh, he’s got a
dreadful appetite. Tante Pauline says she can’t afford to feed him.”
And she looked anxiously at her greedy pet.

“Well, we’ll try him,” said Pepsie, breaking off a piece of the ‘stage
plank’ and throwing it to Tony. The bird gobbled it down promptly, and
then looked for more.

Lady Jane clapped her hands delightedly. “Oh, isn’t Tony nice to eat
it? But we mustn’t let Tite know, because she’d be sorry that _we_
didn’t like it. We’ll keep it and give it all to Tony,” and in this way
Tite’s “stage plank” was disposed of.

If Christmas was a merry day to Lady Jane, New Year’s was certainly
a happy one. The Paichoux children came, as Pepsie said they would,
loaded with bonbons and fireworks, and all day the neighborhood was
lively with their fun—and such a dinner as they brought with them!
Lady Jane thought there never could be anything as pretty as the table
in Madelon’s little room, loaded, as it was, with all sorts of good
things. Tante Modeste went home to dine with her husband, but the
children remained until the milk-cart came for them when it was quite
dark.

After they were all gone, and quiet was restored to the tiny dwelling,
Lady Jane remarked to Pepsie that she thought New Year’s _was_ better
than Christmas.

“But just wait,” said Pepsie, smiling mysteriously, “just wait until
Carnival. Christmas and New Year’s are lovely; but Mardi-gras—oh,
Mardi-gras! there’s _nothing_ like it in the world!”

Lady Jane wondered very much what “Mardi-gras” was, but tried to wait
patiently until that wonderful day should arrive. The time did not pass
slowly to her, surrounded as she was by tender care and affection.

Pepsie was teaching her to read and sew, and Mam’selle Diane was
drilling her in scales,—although at times Madame d’Hautreve grumbled
and quavered about the noise, and declared that the child was too
young; for, stretch them all she could, her tiny fingers would _not_
reach an octave.

And then there were the dancing lessons, which were always a pleasure,
and a constant source of amusement in which Pepsie and Tite Souris
shared; Pepsie as an enraptured spectator, and Tite Souris by
personating Mr. Gex in Lady Jane’s frequent rehearsals; and even Tony
had caught the spirit of Terpsichore, and under Lady Jane’s constant
instruction had learned to take steps, to mince and hop and pirouette,
if not as correctly, at least as gracefully as the ancient Professor
Gex.

Tite Souris had happened to pass Gex’s little shop one day while Lady
Jane was taking her lesson, and from that moment the humorous darky
could never speak of the little dancing-master without loud explosions
of laughter. “Oh Lor’, Miss Peps’, I wish you jes’ done seed littl’
Mars Gex, a-stanin’ up wid he toes turn out so he look lak he o’ny
got one foot, an’ he ap’on roll up un’er he arms, an’ he hands jes’
so,”—here Tite caught the sides of her scant skirt, displaying two
enormous feet and a pair of thin black legs—“a-steppin’, an’ a-hoppin’
an’ a-whirlin’ an’ a-smilin’ wid he eyes shet, jes’ as if he done got
religion, an’ was so happy he doan’ know what’er do. An’ Miss Lady,
wid ’er head on one side, lak a morkin bird, a-holdin’ out ’er littl’
skirt, an’ a-steppin’, an’ a-prancin’, for all de worl’ jes’ lak Mars
Gex, an’ a-puttin’ ’er han’ on ’er bre’s’, an’ a-bowin’ so er yaller
har all-a-mos’ tech der flo’. Lor’, Lor’, I done mos’ die a-larfin’.
Such cuttin’s up yer nebber did see! It’s might’ funny, Miss Peps’, all
dis yer dancin’ an’ a-caperin’, but I’se scared ’bout Miss Lady wid all
dem goin’s on. I’m feared der gobble-uns’ll ketch ’er sum time, w’en
’ers a-steppin’ an’ a-hoppin’, an’ tote ’er off ter dat dar ole wicked
_devil_, wat’s watchin’ fer triflin’ chil’ren lak dat, ’cause Deacon
Jone say, der devil’ll git all pussuns wat dance, shore, _shore_.”

“Nonsense, Tite, go away!” cried Pepsie, laughing till the tears came
at her handmaid’s droll pantomime. “If what you say is true, where
do you think you’ll go to? Haven’t you been acting Mr. Gex for Miss
Lady, over and over, when she’s been repeating her dancing-lesson to
me? Haven’t you been standing right up on that floor, holding out your
skirt, and dancing back and forth, and whirling, and prancing, as much
like Mr. Gex as you possibly could? _Haven’t_ you now, Tite? And I’m
sure the ‘gobble-uns’ would take an ugly black thing like you before
they would a little angel like Miss Lady.”

“But I war jes’ a-funnin’, Miss Peps’. Date ole devil know I war jes’
a-funnin’; an’ he ain’t gwine ter tote me off w’en I ain’t done no
harm; ’t ain’t lak I war in earnest, yer know, Miss Peps’.” And with
this nice distinction Tite comforted herself and went on her way
rejoicing.

About this time Madame Jozain was seized with a sudden spasm of piety
and took to going to church again. However, she kept at a discreet
distance from Father Ducros, who, at the time of the death of the young
widow, had asked her some rather searching questions, and several times
when he met her afterwards remarked that she seemed to have given up
church-going. She was very glad, therefore, when about this time she
heard that he had been sent to Cuba on a mission, which Madame hoped
would detain him there always. One Sunday it occurred to her that she
ought to take Lady Jane to church with her, and not allow her to grow
up like a heathen; and besides, the child dressed in her best had
such an air of distinction that she would add greatly to the elegant
appearance Madame desired to make.

Pepsie had a knack of dressing Lady Jane as Madame never could; so the
little girl was sent across the street to be made beautiful, with
flowing glossy hair and dainty raiment. And when Madame, dressed in one
of the young widow’s elegant mourning suits, somewhat changed to better
suit her age and position, leading Lady Jane by the hand with a gentle
maternal air, limped slowly up the broad aisle of the Cathedral, she
felt perfectly satisfied with herself and her surroundings.

Lady Jane had never been in a church before, and the immense interior,
the grand, solemn notes of the organ, and the heavenly music of the
choir made a deep and lasting impression upon her, and opened up to her
new vistas of life through which her pure little soul longed to stray.

The musical nature is often a religious nature, and in the child was a
deep vein of piety, which only needed working to produce the richest
results; therefore, the greatest of all her pleasures from that time
was to go to church and listen to the music, and afterwards to tell
Pepsie of all she had seen and enjoyed, and to repeat, as far as it
was possible with her small, sweet voice, the heavenly strains of the
anthems she had heard.




CHAPTER XIX

MARDI-GRAS


One morning—it was the day before Mardi-Gras—when Lady Jane entered
Pepsie’s room, instead of finding her friend engaged in her usual
occupation, the table was cleared of all that pertained to business,
and on it was spread a quantity of pink cambric, which Pepsie was
measuring and snipping with great gravity.

“Oh, Pepsie, what are you making?” cried Lady Jane, greatly surprised
at this display of finery.

“It’s a domino,” replied Pepsie curtly, her mouth full of pins.

“A domino, a domino,” repeated Lady Jane. “What’s a domino? I never saw
one.”

“Of course, you never saw one, because you never saw a Mardi-Gras,”
said Pepsie, removing the pins, and smiling to herself as she smoothed
the pattern on the cloth.

“Mardi-gras! Is it for Mardi-gras?” asked Lady Jane eagerly. “You might
tell me all about it. I don’t know what it’s for,” she added, much
puzzled, and somewhat annoyed at Pepsie’s air of secrecy.

“Well, it’s for some one to wear, Mardi-Gras,” replied Pepsie, still
smiling serenely, and with an exasperating air of mystery.

“Oh, Pepsie—who, _who_ is it for?” cried Lady Jane, pressing close, and
putting both arms around her friend’s neck; “tell me, please, do! If
it’s a secret I won’t tell.”

“Oh, it’s for a little girl I know,” said Pepsie, cutting and slashing
the cambric with the greatest indifference, and evidently bent on
keeping her own counsel.

Lady Jane stood still for a moment, letting her arms fall from Pepsie’s
neck. Her face was downcast, and something like a tear shone on her
lashes; then, a little slowly and thoughtfully, she climbed into her
chair on the other side of the table, and, leaning on her elbows,
watched the absorbed Pepsie silently.

Pepsie pinned, and snipped, and smoothed, all the while smiling with
that little air of unconcern which so puzzled the child. Presently,
without looking up, she said:

“Can’t you guess, Lady, who it’s for?”

“Isn’t it for Sophie Paichoux?” ventured Lady Jane.

“No, no,” said Pepsie decidedly; “the one I mean it for isn’t any
relation to me.”

“Then, I don’t know any other little girl. Oh, Pepsie, I can’t guess.”

“Why, you dear, stupid, little goose!” cried Pepsie, laughing aloud.

“Oh, Pepsie. It isn’t! is it?” and Lady Jane’s eyes shone like stars,
and her face broke into a radiant smile. “Do you mean it for me?
Really, do you, Pepsie?”

“Why, certainly. Who do you think I’d make it for, if not for you?”

“Oh, you dear, darling Pepsie! But why didn’t you say so just at first?
Why—why did you make me,” she hesitated for a word, and then added,
“why did you make me—jealous?”

“I only wanted to tease you a little,” laughed Pepsie. “I wanted to see
if you’d guess right off. I thought you’d know right away that I didn’t
love any one else well enough to make a domino for her, and I wanted to
try you, that was all.”

This rather ambiguous explanation was quite satisfactory, and after
a great many caresses Pepsie went on to tell that Tante Modeste had
been there very early, and that she had invited Lady Jane to go in her
milk-cart, that afternoon, up on Canal Street to see the King of the
Carnival arrive. The cans were to be taken out of the cart, and an
extra seat was to be put in, so that all the young ones could take part
in the glorious spectacle.

Then Pepsie waited for Lady Jane to get her breath before she
finished telling her of Tante Modeste’s plans for the next day, the
long-looked-for Mardi-gras.

The little Paichoux wanted Lady Jane to see everything; by some means
she must take an active part in the festivities; she must be on Canal
Street not as a spectator, but as an actor in the gay scene.

“Children don’t enjoy it half as well, at least mine don’t,” said Tante
Modeste, “if they’re cooped up in a cart, or on a gallery, so the best
way is to put a domino on them, and turn them in with the crowd.”

“But I’m afraid for Lady,” demurred Pepsie, “she might get frightened
in such a crowd, or she might get lost.”

“You needn’t be afraid of that; Tiburce is going to take care of my
young ones, and I’ve told him that he must hold fast to the child all
the time. Then, Tite can go too; I’ve got an old domino that’ll do for
her, and she can keep the child’s hand fast on the other side. If they
keep together, there’s no danger.”

“But perhaps Madame Jozain won’t allow her to go on Canal Street.”

“Yes, she will, she’ll be glad to get rid of the care of the child. I
just met her coming from market, she had a cream cheese for the little
one. I guess she’s pretty good to her, when it doesn’t put her out. She
says Madame Hortense, the milliner, on Canal Street, is an old friend
of hers, and she’s invited her to come and sit on her gallery and see
the show, and there’s no room for children, so she’ll be very glad to
have her niece taken care of, and it’s so good of me, and all that. Oh
dear, dear! I can’t like that woman. I may be wrong, but she’s a dose I
can’t swallow,” and Tante Modeste shrugged her shoulders and laughed.

“But Lady’s got no domino,” said Pepsie ruefully, “and I’m afraid
Madame Jozain won’t make her one.”

“Never mind saying anything to her about it. Here’s two bits. Send Tite
for some cambric, and I’ll cut you a pattern in a minute. I’ve made so
many I know all about it, and, my dear, you can sew it up through the
day. Have her ready by nine o’clock. I’ll be here by nine. I’m going to
take them all up in the cart and turn them out, and they can come back
to me when they’re tired.”

In this way Tante Modeste surmounted all difficulties, and the next
morning Lady Jane, completely enveloped in a little pink domino, with
a tiny pink mask carefully fastened over her rosy face, and her blue
eyes wide with delight and wonder sparkling through the two holes, was
lifted into the milk cart with the brood of little Paichoux, and with
many good-byes to poor forlorn Pepsie and to Tony, who was standing
dejectedly on one leg, the happy child was rattled away in the bright
sunlight, through the merry, noisy crowd, to that center of every
delight, Canal Street, on Mardi-gras.

There was no room for Tite Souris in the cart, so that dusky maiden,
arrayed in the colors of a demon of darkness, an old red domino with
black, bat-like wings, was obliged to take herself to the rendezvous,
near the Clay statue, by whatever means of locomotion she could
command. When the cart was passing Rue Royale, there was Tite in her
uncanny disguise, flapping her black wings, and scuttling along as
fast as her thin legs would carry her.

At last the excited party in the milk cart and the model for a
diabolical flying machine were together under Tante Modeste’s
severe scrutiny, listening with much-divided attention to her final
instructions.

“Tiburce, attend to what I tell you,” she said impressively; “you are
the eldest of the party, and you must take care of the little ones,
especially of Lady Jane; keep her hand in yours all the time, mind what
I say—don’t let go of her. And you, Tite, keep on the other side and
hold her hand fast. Sophie, you can go in front with the two smallest,
and the others can follow behind. Now keep together, and go along
decently, no running or racketing on the street, and as soon as the
procession passes, you had better come back to me. You will be tired
and ready to go home. And Tite, remember what Miss Pepsie told you
about Miss Lady. If you let anything happen to her, you’d better go and
drown yourself.”

Tite, with her wings poised for flight, promised everything, even to
drowning herself if necessary; and before Tante Modeste had climbed
into her cart the whole brood had disappeared amongst the motley crowd.

At first, Lady Jane was a little frightened at the noise and confusion;
but she had a brave little heart, and clung tightly to Tiburce on one
side and Tite on the other. In a few moments she was quite reassured
and as happy as any of the merry little imps around her.

It was delightful; she seemed to be carried along in a stream of
riotous life, all disguised and decorated to suit their individual
fancies. There were demons and angels, clowns and monks, imps and
fairies, animals and birds, fish and insects—in fact, everything that
the richest imagination could devise.

At first, Tite Souris ambled along quite decorously, making now and
then a little essay at flying with her one free wing, which gave
her a curious one-sided appearance, provoking much mirth among the
little Paichoux; but at length restraint became irksome, and finally
impossible. She could bear it no longer, even if she died for it.
Ignoring all her promises, and the awful reckoning in store for her,
with one bound for freedom she tore herself from Lady Jane’s clinging
hand and, flapping her hideous wings, plunged into the crowd, and
was instantly swallowed up in the vortex of humanity that whirled
everywhere.

The procession was coming, the crowd grew very dense, and they were
pulled, and pushed, and jostled; but still Tiburce, who was a strong,
courageous boy, held his ground, and landed Lady Jane on a window-sill,
where she could have a good view. The other Paichoux, under the
generalship of Sophie, came up to form a guard, and so, in a very
secure and comfortable position, in spite of Tite’s desertion Lady Jane
saw the procession of King Rex, and his royal household.

When Tiburce told her that the beautiful Bœuf gras, decorated so gaily
with flowers and ribbons, would be killed and eaten afterward, she
almost shed tears, and when he further informed her that King Rex was
no King at all, only a citizen dressed as a King in satin and velvet,
and feathers, she doubted it, and still clung to the illusion that
he must sit always on a throne, and wear a crown, according to the
traditions of Mr. Gex.

Now that the procession was over, all might have gone well if Tiburce
had held out as he began; but alas! in an evil moment, he yielded to
temptation and fell.

They were on their way back to Tante Modeste, quite satisfied with all
they had seen, when they came upon a crowd gathered around the door
of a fashionable club. From the balcony above a party of young men,
who were more generous than wise, were throwing small change, dimes
and nickels, into the crowd, that the rabble might scramble for them;
and there right in the midst of the seething mass was Tite Souris, her
domino hanging in rags, her wings gone, and her whole appearance very
dilapidated and disorderly; but the demon of greed was gleaming in her
eyes, and her teeth were showing in a fierce, white line, while she
plunged and struggled and battled for the root of all evil.

Tiburce’s first intention was to make a detour of the crowd; but
just as he was about to do so the gleam of a dime on the edge of the
sidewalk caught his eye, and, overcome by the spirit of avarice, he
forgot everything, and dropped Lady Jane’s hand to make a dive for it.

Lady Jane never knew how it happened, but in an instant she was whirled
away from the Paichoux, swept on with the crowd that a policeman was
driving before him, and carried she knew not where.

At first she ran hither and thither, seizing upon every domino that
bore the least resemblance to her companions, and calling Tiburce,
Sophie, Nanette, in heartrending tones, until quite exhausted she sank
down in a doorway, and watched the crowd surge past her.




CHAPTER XX

LADY JANE DINES WITH MR. GEX


For some time Lady Jane sat in the doorway, not knowing just what to
do. She was very tired, and at first she was inclined to rest, thinking
that Tiburce would come back and find her there; then when no one
noticed her, and it seemed very long that she had waited, she felt
inclined to cry; but she was a sensible, courageous little soul, and
knew that tears would do no good; besides it was very uncomfortable,
crying behind a mask. Her eyes burned, and her head ached, and she
was hungry and thirsty, and yet Tiburce didn’t come; perhaps they had
forgotten her altogether, and had got into the milk-cart, and gone home.

This thought was too much to bear calmly, so she started to her feet,
determined to try to find them if they were not coming to search for
her.

She did not know which way to turn, for the crowd confused her
terribly. Sometimes a rude imp in a domino would push her, or twitch
her sleeve, and then, as frightened as a hunted hare, she would dart
into the first doorway, and wait until her tormentor had passed. She
was such a delicate little creature to be buffeted by a turbulent
crowd, and had it not been for the disguise of the domino she would
soon have found a protector amongst those she fled from.

After wandering around for some time, she found herself very near the
spot she started from; and, thankful for the friendly shelter of the
doorway, she slipped into it and sat down to think and rest. She wanted
to take off her mask and cool her hot face, but she did not dare to;
for some reason she felt that her disguise was a protection; but how
could any one find _her_ when there were dozens of little figures
flitting about in pink dominos?

While she sat there thinking and wondering what she should do, she
noticed a carriage drive up to the next door, and two gentlemen got
out, followed by a young man. When the youth turned his face toward
her, she started up excitedly, and holding out her hands she cried out
pitifully, “It’s me; it’s Lady Jane.”

The young fellow glanced around him with a startled look; he heard the
little cry, but did not catch the words, and it moved him strangely; he
thought it sounded like some small creature in pain, but he only saw
a little figure in a soiled pink domino standing in the next doorway,
some little street gamin, he supposed, and without further notice he
passed her and followed his companions up the steps.

It was the boy who gave Lady Jane the blue heron, and he had passed her
without seeing her; she had called to him, and he had not heard her.
This was too much, she could not bear it, and withdrawing again into
her retreat she sat down and burst into a passion of tears.

For a long while she cried silently, then she fell asleep and forgot
for a time all her troubles. When she woke a rude man was pulling her
to her feet, and telling her to wake up and go home; he had a stick and
bright buttons on his coat. “A young one tired out and gone to sleep,”
he muttered, as he went on his way.

[Illustration: SHE CRIED OUT PITIFULLY, “IT’S LADY JANE”]

Then Lady Jane began to think that that place was no longer a safe
refuge; the man with the stick might come back and beat her if she
remained there, so she started out and crept along close to the high
buildings. She wondered if it was near night, and what she should do
when it got dark. Oh, if Tante Modeste, Tiburce, or Madelon would only
come for her, or Tante Pauline,—even she would be a welcome sight,
and she would not run away from Raste, although she detested him; he
pulled her hair and teased her, and called her “My Lady,” but still if
he should come just then she would not run away from him, she would ask
him to take her home.

At that moment some one behind her gave her domino a violent pull, and
she looked around wildly; an imp in yellow and black was following her.
A strand of her bright hair had escaped from her hood and fallen over
her back; he had it in his hand, and was using it as a rein. “Get up,
my little nag,” he was saying, in a rude, impertinent voice; “come,
trot, trot.” At first she tried to jerk her hair away; she was so tired
and frightened that she could scarcely stand, but she turned on her
tormentor and bade him leave her alone.

“I’m going to pull off your mask,” he said, “and see if you ain’t Mary
O’Brien.” He made a clutch at her, but Lady Jane evaded it; all the
spirit in her was aroused by this assault, and the usually gentle child
was transformed into a little fury. “Don’t touch me,” she cried; “don’t
touch me,”—and she struck the yellow and black imp full in the face
with all her strength.

Now this blow was the signal for a battle, in which Lady Jane was sadly
worsted, for in a few moments the boy, who was older and of course
stronger, had torn her domino from her in ribbons, had snatched off
her mask, and pulled the hood from her head, which unloosened all her
beautiful hair, allowing it to fall in a golden shower far below her
waist, and there she stood with flashing eyes and burning cheeks,
quivering and panting in the midst of a strange, rude crowd, like a
little wild hunted animal suddenly brought to bay.

At that moment she saw some one leap on to the _banquette_, and with
one well-aimed and dexterous kick send her enemy sprawling into the
gutter, while all the bystanders shouted with laughter.

It was Gex, little Gex, who had come to her rescue, and never did
fair lady cling with greater joy and gratitude to the knight who had
delivered her from the claws of a dragon, than did Lady Jane to the
little horny hand of the ancient professeur of the dance.

For a moment she could not speak; she was so exhausted with her battle
and so overcome with delight that she had no voice to express her
feelings.

Gex understood the situation, and with great politeness and delicacy
led her into a pharmacy near, smoothed her disordered dress and hair,
and gave her a glass of soda.

This so revived the little lady that she found voice to say: “Oh, Mr.
Gex, how did you know where I was?”

“I didn’t, I didn’t,” replied Gex tremulously. “It vas vhat you call
one accident. I vas just going down the Rue Royale, vas just turning
the corner, I vas on my vay home. I’d finished my Mardi-gras, all I
vant of the noise and foolishness, and I vas going back to Rue des Bons
Enfants, vhen I hears one leetle girl cry out, and I look and saw the
yellow devil pull down my leetle lady’s hair. Oh, _bon, bon_, didn’t
I give him one blow!—didn’t I send him in the gutter flying!”—and Gex
rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight. “And how lucky vas I to
have one accident to find my leetle lady, vhen she vas in trouble!”

Then Lady Jane and Mr. Gex turned down Rue Royale, and while she
skipped along holding his hand, her troubles all forgotten, she told
him how it happened that she had been separated from Tiburce, and of
all her subsequent misadventures.

Presently, Gex stopped before a neat little restaurant, whose window
presented a very tempting appearance, and, looking at Lady Jane with a
broad, inviting smile, said, “I should like to know if my leetle lady
vas hungry. It is past four of the clock, and I should like to give my
leetle lady von Mardi-gras dinner.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Gex,” cried Lady Jane, delightedly, for the smell
of the savory food appealed to her empty stomach. “I’m so hungry that I
can’t wait until I get home.”

“Vell, you sha’n’t; this is one nice place, vairy _chic_ and
fashionable, fit for one leetle lady, and you shall see that Gex can
order one fine dinner, as vell as teach the dance.”

When the quaint little old man, in his antiquated black suit, a relic
of other and better days, entered the room, with the beautiful child,
rosy and bareheaded, her yellow hair flying out like spun silk, and her
dainty though disordered dress plainly showing her superior position,
every eye was turned upon him, and Gex felt the stirrings of old pride
and ambition, as he placed a chair with great ceremony, and lifted Lady
Jane into it. Then he drew out his spectacles with much dignity, and,
taking the card the waiter handed him, waited, pencil poised, for the
orders of the young lady.

“If you please,” he said, with a formal bow, and an inviting smile, “to
tell me vhat you prefair.”

Lady Jane frowned and bit her lips at the responsibility of deciding
so important a matter; at length she said, with sparkling eyes and a
charming smile:

“If you please, Mr. Gex, I’ll take some—some ice cream.”

“But first, my leetle lady,—but first, one leetle _plat_ of soup, and
the fish with _sauce verte_, and one leetle bird,—just one leetle bird
vith the _petit pois_—and one fine, good, leetle salad. How vould that
suit my leetle lady?”

“And ice cream?” questioned Lady Jane, leaning forward with her little
hands clasped primly in her lap.

“And after, yes, one _crême à la glace_, one cake, and one leetle bunch
of _raisin_, grape you say,” repeated Gex, as he wrote laboriously with
his old, stiff fingers. “Now ve vill have one fine leetle dinner, my
leetle lady,” he said, with a beaming smile, when he had completed the
order.

Lady Jane nodded an affirmative, and while they waited for their
dinner her bright eyes traveled over everything; at length they rested
on Mr. Gex with unbounded admiration, and she could not refrain from
leaning forward and whispering:

“Oh, Mr. Gex, how nice, how lovely you look! Please, Mr. Gex, _please_
don’t wear an apron any more.”

“Vell, if my leetle lady don’t vant me to, vell, I von’t,” replied Gex,
beaming with sudden ambition and pride, “and, perhaps, I vill try to
be one fine leetle gentleman again, like vhen I vas professeur of the
dance.”




CHAPTER XXI

AFTER THE CARNIVAL


It was nearly dark, and the day had been very long to Pepsie, sitting
alone at her window, for Madelon must remain all day and until late at
night on the Rue Bourbon. A holiday, and especially Mardi-gras, was
a day of harvest for her, and she never neglected a chance to reap
nickels and dimes; therefore Pepsie began to look anxiously for the
return of the merry party in the milk-cart. She knew they were not to
remain to see the night procession; at least, that had not been the
intention of Tante Modeste when she left, and she could not imagine
what had detained them. And Tite Souris,—ungrateful creature! had been
told to return as soon as the procession was over, in order to get
Pepsie’s dinner. Owing to the excitement of the morning, Pepsie had
eaten nothing, and now she was very hungry, as well as lonesome; and
even Tony, tired of waiting, was hopping about restlessly, straining at
his cord, and pecking the floor viciously.

Madame Jozain had returned some time before, and was even then eating
her dinner comfortably, Pepsie had called across to know if she had
seen anything of the Paichoux and Lady Jane; but madame had answered
stiffly that she had been in her friend’s gallery all the time,
which was an intimation that she had been in no position to notice
a milk-cart, or its occupants. Then she observed indifferently that
Madame Paichoux had probably decided to remain on Canal Street in order
to get good positions for the night procession.

Pepsie comforted herself somewhat with this view of the case, and then
began to worry about the child’s fast. She was sure Tante Modeste had
nothing in the cart for the children to eat, and on Mardi-gras there
was such a rush that one could hardly get into a restaurant, and she
doubted whether Tante Modeste would try with such a crowd of young ones
to feed. At length when she had thought of every possible reason for
their remaining so late, and every possible plan by which they could
be fed, she began to think of her own hunger, and of Tite Souris’s
neglect, and had worked herself up to a very unenviable state of mind,
when she saw her ungrateful handmaid plunging across the street,
looking like a much-abused scarecrow, the remnants of her tatters
flying in the wind, and her long black legs, owing to the unexpected
abbreviation of her skirts, longer and thinner than ever, while her
comical black face wore an expression impossible to describe.

“Oh, Miss Peps’,” she gasped, bursting into Pepsie’s presence like a
whirlwind, “Ma’m Paichoux done sont me on ahead ter tell yer how Miss
Lady’s done got lost.”

“Lost, lost?” cried Pepsie, clasping her hands wildly and bursting into
tears. “How, where?”

“Up yon’er, on Cunnul Street. We’s can’t find ’er nowhar.”

“Then you must have let go of her,” cried Pepsie, while her eyes
flashed fire. “I told you not to let go of her.”

“Oh laws, Miss Peps’, we’s couldn’t holp it in dat dar scrimmage;
peoples done bus’ us right apart, an’ Miss Lady’s so littl’ her han’
jes slip outen mine. I’se tried ter hole on, but’t ain’t no use.”

“And where was Tiburce? Did he let go of her too?”

“He war dar, but Lor! he couldn’t holp it, Mars’ Tiburce couldn’t, no
more en me.”

“You’ve broken my heart, Tite, and if you don’t go and find her I’ll
hate you always. Mind what I say, I’ll hate you forever,” and Pepsie
thrust out her long head and set her teeth in a cruel way.

“Oh laws, honey! Oh laws, Miss Peps’, dey’s all a-lookin’, dey’s gwine
bring ’er back soon; doan’t git scart, dat chile’s all right.”

“Go and look for her; go and find her! Mind what I tell you; bring her
back safe or—” Here Pepsie threw herself back in her chair and fairly
writhed. “Oh, oh! and I must stay here and not do anything, and that
darling is lost, lost!—out in the streets alone, and nearly dark. Go,
go and look for her; don’t stand there glaring at me. _Go_, I say,” and
Pepsie raised her nutcracker threateningly.

“Yes, Miss Peps’, yes, I’ll bring ’er back shore,” cried Tite, dodging
an imaginary blow, as she darted out, her rags and tatters flying after
her.

When she had gone Pepsie could do nothing but strain her eyes in the
gathering darkness, and wring her hands and weep. She saw the light and
the fire in Madame Jozain’s room, but the door was closed because the
evening was chilly, and the street seemed deserted. There was no one to
speak to; she was alone in the dark little room with only Tony, who
rustled his feathers in a ghostly sort of way, and _toned_ dismally.

Presently, she heard the sound of wheels, and peering out saw Tante
Modeste’s milk-cart; her heart gave a great bound. How foolish she was
to take on in such a wild way; they had found her, she was there in the
cart, safe and sound; but instead of Lady Jane’s blithe little voice
she heard her Uncle Paichoux, and in an instant Tante Modeste entered
with a very anxious face.

“She hasn’t come home, has she?” were Tante Modeste’s first words.

“Oh, oh!” sobbed Pepsie, “then you haven’t brought her?”

“Don’t cry, child, don’t cry, we’ll find her now. When I saw I couldn’t
do anything, I took the young ones home, and got your uncle. I said,
‘If I have Paichoux, I’ll be able to find her.’ We’re going right to
the police. I dare say they’ve found her, or know where she is.”

“You know I told you—” moaned Pepsie, “you know I was afraid she’d get
lost.”

“Yes, yes; but I thought I could trust Tiburce. The boy will never get
over it; he told me the truth, thank Heaven; he said he just let go
her hand for one moment, and there was such a crowd. If that fly-away
of a Tite had kept on the other side it wouldn’t have happened, but she
ran off as soon as they got on the street.”

“I thought so. I’ll pay her off,” said Pepsie vindictively.

“Come, come, Modeste,” called Paichoux from the door, “let’s be
starting.”

“Oh, uncle!” cried Pepsie, imploringly, “do find Lady Jane.”

“Certainly, child, certainly, I’ll find her. I’ll have her back here
in an hour or so. Don’t cry. It’s nothing for a young one to get lost
Mardi-gras; I dare say there are a dozen at the police stations now,
waiting for their people to come and get them.”

Just at that moment there was a sound of voices without, and Pepsie
exclaimed: “That’s Lady Jane. I heard her speak.” Sure enough, the
sweet, high-pitched little voice chattering merrily could be distinctly
heard; and at the same instant Tite Souris burst into the room,
exclaiming:

“Her’s here, Miss Peps’, bress der Lor’! I’s done found her”; and
following close was Lady Jane, still holding fast to little Gex.

“Oh, Pepsie! Oh, I was lost!” she cried, springing into her friend’s
arms. “I was lost, and Mr. Gex found me; and I struck a boy in the
face, and he tore off my domino and mask, and I didn’t know what to do,
when Mr. Gex came and kicked him into the gutter. Didn’t you, Mr. Gex?”

“Just to think of it!” cried Tante Modeste, embracing her, and almost
crying over her, while Paichoux was listening to the modest account of
the rescue, from the ancient dancing-master.

“And I had dinner with Mr. Gex,” cried Lady Jane joyfully; “such a
lovely dinner—ice cream, and grapes—and cake!”

“And one leetle bird, vith a vairy fine salad, my leetle lady,—vasn’t
it—one vairy nice leetle bird?” interrupted Gex, who was unwilling to
have his fine dinner belittled.

“Oh, yes; bird, and fish, and soup,” enumerated Lady Jane, “and peas,
Pepsie, little peas.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu_! oh, leetle lady!” cried Gex, holding up his hands in
horror, “you have it vairy wrong. It vas soup, and fish, and bird. M.
Paichoux, you see the leetle lady does not vell remember; and you must
not think I can’t order one vairy fine dinner.”

“I understand,” said Paichoux, laughing. “I’ve no doubt, Gex, but what
you could order a dinner fit for an alderman.”

“Thank you, thank you, vairy much,” returned Gex, as he bowed himself
out and went home to dream of his triumphs.




CHAPTER XXII

PAICHOUX MAKES A PURCHASE


“Just to think,” said Pepsie to her mother, the next morning, “Madame
Jozain wasn’t the least anxious last night about Lady. I don’t believe
she cares for the child, or she’d never be willing to let her stay away
from her the most of the time, as she does. She’s always fussing about
her great, overgrown son, if _he’s_ out of her sight.”

“And no wonder,” returned Madelon. “Poor woman, she has trouble enough
with him. She keeps it to herself and pretends to be proud of him; but,
my dear, he’s a living disgrace to her. I often hear him spoken of on
the Rue Bourbon; he dresses fine and never works. Where does he get
his money, _ma petite_? If people are poor and don’t work they must
steal. They may call it by some other name, but I call it stealing.
Madame Jozain can’t make money enough in that little shop to support
herself and keep that boy in idleness. We mustn’t be too hard on her.
She has trouble enough, I can see it in her face; she looks worn out
with worry. And we’ll do all we can for that little darling. It’s a
pleasure; she’s so sweet and grateful. I only wish I could do more. I’d
work my fingers to the bone for you two, my darling.”

“_Bonne maman_,” said Pepsie, clinging to her neck, and kissing her
fondly, “have you thought of what I asked you—have you, mama?”

“Yes, my dear, I have, I’ve thought of it a great deal; but I don’t see
my way clear quite yet.”

“Why, you’ve got the money in the bank, mama?”

“I can’t touch that money, my dear; it’s for you. If anything should
happen to me, and you were left alone.”

“Hush, hush, mama; I shouldn’t need any money then, for I should die
too.”

“No, my dear, not if it was the good God’s will that you should live. I
don’t want to spend that; I want to feel that you’ve something. A piano
costs a great deal of money; besides, what would your uncle and aunt
think if I should do such a thing?”

“They’d think you did it because _I_ wanted you to,” returned Pepsie
slyly.

“That would be a reason certainly,” said Madelon, laughing, “and I’ll
try to do it after a while. Have a little patience, dear, and I think I
can manage it without touching the money in the bank.”

“Oh, I hope you can, mama, because Mam’selle Diane says Lady learns
very fast, and that she ought to practise. I hate to have her kept back
for the need of a piano, and Madame Jozain will never get one for her.
You know you could sell it afterward, mama,”—and Pepsie went on to
show, with much excellent reasoning, that Lady Jane could never make
a great _prima donna_ unless she had advantages. “It’s now, while her
fingers are supple, that they must be trained; she ought to practise
two hours a day. Oh, I’d rather go without the money than to have Lady
kept back. Try, _bonne maman_, try to get a piano very soon, won’t you?”

And Madelon promised to try, for she was devoted to the child; but
Pepsie had begun to think that Lady Jane was her own—her very own, and,
in her generous affection, was willing to sacrifice everything for her
good.

And Madelon and Pepsie were not the only ones who planned and hoped
for the little one with almost a mother’s love and interest. From the
first day that Lady Jane smiled up into the sad, worn face of Diane
d’Hautreve, a new life had opened to that lonely woman, a new hope,
a new happiness brightened her dreary days; for the child’s presence
seemed to bring sunshine and youth to her. Had it not been for her
mother, she would have kept the gentle little creature with her
constantly, as the sweetest hours she knew, or had known for many a
weary year, were those she devoted to her lovely little pupil. It was
a dream of delight to sit at the tinkling piano with Lady Jane nestled
close to her side, the sweet, liquid notes mingling with hers, as they
sang an old-fashioned ballad, or a tender lullaby. And the child never
disappointed her; she was always docile and thoughtful, and so quiet
and polite that even Diane’s mother, captious and querulous though she
was, found no cause for complaint, while the toleration with which she
had at first received Lady Jane was fast changing into affection. The
more they became interested in her, the more they wondered how she
could be kin to such a woman as Madame Jozain; for Mam’selle Diane had
been obliged to show how exclusive she could be in order to keep madame
where she belonged.

At first Madame Jozain had annoyed them greatly by trying to intrude
upon their seclusion; and it had taken several polite, but unmistakable
rebuffs to reach her that they were d’Hautreves, and that the child
would be received gladly where the aunt must not expect to enter.

Madame swallowed her mortification and said nothing, but she bided her
time to take her revenge. “_I’ll_ show them before long that I know how
poor they are; and that funny little story I got out of Tite Souris,
about Mam’selle Diane cleaning her _banquette_ with a veil over her
face—every one in the neighborhood shall know it. Poor, proud, old
thing, she thought she could insult me and I wouldn’t resent it!”

And while Madame was planning her little revenge, and rehearsing her
grievances to herself, Madame d’Hautreve and Mam’selle Diane were
wondering if something couldn’t be done to get the child out of the
clutches of such an aunt.

“It seems dreadful,” Mam’selle Diane would say, sadly, “to leave her
with that woman. I can’t think she has any right to her; there’s a
mystery about it, and it ought to be investigated. Oh, mama dear, if
we had some money I’d hire a lawyer to find out. If she really is the
child’s next-of-kin, I suppose she has a legal right to her, and
that no one could oblige her to relinquish that right; but one might
_buy_ the child; I think she is just the woman to be moved by money.
Oh, mama, if our claim had only gone through! If we’d only got what
we ought to have had, I would try—if you had no objections—to get the
child.”

“Dear, dear, Diane, how absurd you are! What would you do with her?”

“Why, you could adopt her, mama, and I could have the care of her.”

“But, my child, that is all romancing. We have no money, and we never
shall have any. It is useless to think of that claim, it will never be
considered; and even if we had money, it would be a great risk to take
a child we know nothing of. I think with you that there’s some mystery,
and I should like to have it looked into, yet I don’t think it’s worth
while worrying about; we have troubles enough of our own.”

“Oh, mama, we need not be selfish because we are poor,” said Diane,
gently.

“We can’t help it, child; selfishness is one of the results of poverty.
It is self, self, constantly; but _you_ are an exception, Diane. I will
give you the credit of thinking more of others’ interest than of your
own. You show it in everything. Now, about that bird. Madame Jourdain
should have paid you for it, and not thrown it on your hands.”

“Oh, mama, she couldn’t sell it,” said Mam’selle Diane, rejectedly. “It
wouldn’t be right to expect her to lose the price of it. She says it
didn’t ‘take’ as well as the ducks.”

“Well, she might have thrown in the wool,” insisted Madame d’Hautreve,
querulously, “she might have given the wool against your time.”

“But she didn’t ask me to experiment with a new model, mama dear. It
wasn’t her fault if I didn’t succeed.”

“You _did_ succeed, Diane. It was perfect; it was most life-like, only
people haven’t the taste to recognize your talent.”

“Madame Jourdain said that her customers didn’t like the bird’s bill,
and they thought the neck too long,” returned Mam’selle Diane, humbly.

“There, there; that shows how little the best educated people know
of ornithology. It is a species of crane; the neck is not out of
proportion.”

“They thought so, mama, and one can’t contend with people’s tastes and
opinions. I shall not try anything new again. I shall stick to my
ducks and canaries.”

“You know I advised you to do so in the first place. You were too
ambitious, Diane, you were too ambitious!”

“Yes; you are right, mama, I was too ambitious!” sighed Mam’selle Diane.

       *       *       *       *       *

One morning in August, about a year from the time that Madame Jozain
moved into Good Children Street, Tante Modeste was in her dairy, deep
in the mysteries of cream-cheese and butter, when Paichoux entered, and
laying a small parcel twisted up in a piece of newspaper before her
waited for her to open it.

“In a moment,” she said, smiling brightly; “let me fill these molds
first, then I’ll wash my hands, and I’m done for to-day.”

Paichoux made no reply, but walked about the dairy, peering into the
pans of rich milk, and whistling softly.

Suddenly, Tante Modeste uttered an exclamation of surprise. She
had opened the paper, and was holding up a beautiful watch by its
exquisitely wrought chain.

“Why, papa, where in the world did you get this?” she asked, as she
turned it over and over, and examined first one side and then the
other. “Blue enamel, a band of diamonds on the rim, a leaf in diamonds
on one side, a monogram on the other. What are the letters?—the stones
sparkle so, I can hardly make them out. J, yes, it’s a J, and a C. Why,
those are the very initials on that child’s clothes! Paichoux, where
did you get this watch, and whose is it?”

“Why, it’s mine,” replied Paichoux, with exasperating coolness. He
was standing before Tante Modeste, with his thumbs in his waistcoat
pockets, whistling in his easy way. “It’s mine, and I bought it.”

“Bought it! Where did you buy a watch like this, and wrapped up in
newspaper, too? Do tell me where you got it, Paichoux,” cried Tante
Modeste, very much puzzled, and very impatient.

“I bought it in the Recorder’s Court.”

“In the Recorder’s Court?” echoed Tante Modeste, more and more puzzled.
“From whom did you buy it?”

“From Raste Jozain.”

Tante Modeste looked at her husband with wide eyes and parted lips,
and said nothing for several seconds; then she exclaimed, “I told you
so!”

“Told me what?” asked Paichoux, with a provoking smile.

“Why, why, that all those things marked J. C. were stolen from that
child’s mother; and this watch is a part of the same property, and she
never was a Jozain—”

“Not so fast, Modeste; not so fast.”

“Then, what was Raste Jozain in the Recorder’s Court for?”

“He was arrested on suspicion, but they couldn’t prove anything.”

“For this?” asked Tante Modeste, looking at the watch.

“No, it was another charge, but his having such a valuable watch
went against him. It seems like a providence, my getting it. I just
happened to be passing the Recorder’s Court, and, glancing in, I saw
that precious rascal in the dock. I knew him, but he didn’t know me.
So I stepped in to see what the scrape was. It seems that he was
arrested on the suspicion of being one of a gang who have robbed a
number of jewelry stores. They couldn’t prove anything against him on
that charge; but the watch and chain puzzled the Recorder like the
mischief. He asked Raste where he got it, and he was ready with his
answer, ‘It belonged to my cousin who died some time ago; she left it
to my mother, and my mother gave it to me.’”

“‘What was her name?’ asked the Recorder.

“‘Claire Jozain,’ the scamp answered promptly.

“‘But this is J. C.,’ said the Recorder, examining the letters closely.
‘I should certainly say that the J. came first. What do you think,
gentlemen?’ and he handed the watch to his clerk and some others; and
they all thought from the arrangement of the letters that it was J. C.,
and while this discussion was going on, the fellow stood there smiling
as impudent and cool as if he was the first gentleman in the city. He’s
a handsome fellow, and well dressed, and the image of his father. Any
one who had ever seen André Jozain would know that Raste was his son,
and he’s in a fair way to end his days in Andre’s company.”

“And they couldn’t find out where he got the watch?” interrupted Tante
Modeste impatiently.

“No, they couldn’t prove that it was stolen. However, the Recorder gave
him thirty days in the parish prison as a suspicious character.”

“They ought not to have let him off so easily,” said Tante Modeste
decidedly.

“But you know they couldn’t prove anything,” continued Paichoux, “and
the fellow looked blue at the prospect of thirty days. I guess he felt
that he was getting it pretty heavy. However, he put on lots of brass
and began talking and laughing with some flashy-looking fellows who
gathered around him. They saw the watch was valuable, and that there
was a chance for a bargain, and one of them made him an offer of fifty
dollars for it. ‘Do you think I’m from the West?’ he asked, with a
grin, and shoved it back into his pocket! ‘I’m pretty hard up, I need
the cash badly; but I can’t _give_ you this ticker, as much as I love
you.’ Then another fellow offered him sixty, and he shook his head.
‘No, no, that’s nowhere near the figure.’

“‘Let me look at the watch,’ I said, sauntering up. ‘If it’s a good
watch I’ll make you an offer.’ I spoke as indifferently as possible,
because I didn’t want him to think I was anxious, and I wasn’t quite
sure whether he knew me or not. As he handed me the watch he eyed me
impudently, but I saw that he was nervous and shaky. ‘It’s a good
watch,’ I said after I examined it closely; ‘a very good watch, and
I’ll give you seventy-five.’

“‘No, you don’t, old hayseed; hand it here.’ I was so taken aback at
his calling me hayseed—you see, Modeste, I had on my blouse,” and
Paichoux looked a little guilty while referring to his toilet.

“Well papa, haven’t I told you not to go uptown in your blouse?” said
Tante Modeste sharply. “I should think now, for Marie’s sake, that you
would wear a coat; the Guiots all wear coats.”

“Oh, never mind that. I don’t. I’m an honest man, and I can afford to
wear a blouse anywhere. I didn’t take any notice of his impudence, but
I offered him a hundred. You see I happened to have the money with
me. I was on my way to pay Lenotre for those last Jerseys I bought
from him, so I took my wallet out and began counting the bills. That
brought him; the fellow needed the money, and he wanted to get rid of
the watch. If I hadn’t thought that there was something crooked about
it, my conscience wouldn’t have let me take such a valuable thing for
such a price, but I considered the child. I thought it might be all the
proof that we would ever have if anything came up, and in any case it’s
money well invested for her.”

“You did right to buy it, Paichoux. It’s a good deal of money for a
watch, especially just now, when we have to get so much for Marie; but
if we can do anything for that darling by having it, I don’t mind.”
And Tante Modeste sat for some time looking intently at the beautiful,
sparkling object that lay on her white apron.

“I wish it could speak,” she said at length; “I wish it could speak.”

“I mean to make it by and by,” returned Paichoux decidedly.

“But now, at this moment, what a story it could tell if it had a voice!
Well, I’m glad we’ve got it out of that scamp’s clutches.”

“So am I,” returned Paichoux, opening the case as he spoke and showing
Tante Modeste something on the inside of it. “I can get a trace through
this, or I’m mistaken; but put it away now in my safe, and say nothing
about it,—I don’t want even Madelon to know that we’ve got it, and,
Modeste, whenever you see that woman, be on the alert for something
that will give us a clue.”

“Oh, Paichoux, you don’t know her. She’s as close as the grave, and too
cunning to betray herself. I’m always watching her, and I mean to keep
on; but I don’t think it’s any use. I wish we could employ a detective
to unravel the mystery.”

“Yes, yes; but that would cost a good deal, Modeste; let’s wait awhile,
something’s going to turn up to put us on the right track.”

“And in the mean while the poor little darling is in the power of that
woman. The child never complains, but my heart aches for her. She has
changed this summer; she looks thin and weak, and that woman takes no
more care of her than she would of a dog. If it wasn’t for Madelon and
Pepsie, and Mam’selle d’Hautreve, the little creature would suffer; and
our good milk that I send to Madelon has helped her through the hot
weather. Pepsie herself goes without, to give it to the child. If the
sweet little thing hadn’t made friends, she would have perished.”

“Let her come down here and play with our young ones; there’s room
enough,” said Paichoux good-naturedly, “and she’s no more trouble than
a bird hopping about.”

“I wanted to have her, but madame won’t let her come; she’s taken it
in her head to keep the child shut up most of the time. Pepsie and
Mam’selle Diane complain that they don’t have her as often as they’d
like to. I think she’s afraid that the child may talk. You see she’s
getting older, and she may remember more than madame likes her to.”

“Well,” said Paichoux deliberately, “I’ve made a plan, and by and by
I’m going to put it in operation. Just keep quiet and wait until I’m
ready to put my plan in operation.”

And Tante Modeste promised to wait.




CHAPTER XXIII

MADAME JOZAIN CALLS UPON MAM’SELLE DIANE


It was somewhere about the time that Paichoux bought the watch when
Mam’selle Diane was surprised one morning by a visit from Madame
Jozain, who entered the little green gate with an air of haughty
severity and insolent patronage that was insufferable; and she had
evidently come on business, for, after the first formalities had passed
between them, she drew a well-filled purse from her pocket and asked in
a lofty tone if Mam’selle Diane had her bill prepared.

“My bill, Madame Jozain? What bill?” said Mam’selle Diane, looking at
her with cold surprise. “I am not aware that you owe me anything.”

“I owe you for teaching Lady Jane music; you’ve been giving her lessons
now for some months, and I’m sure you must need your money.”

“Oh, Madame,” gasped Mam’selle Diane, “you are laboring under a
mistake. I never thought of receiving money for the pleasure I have
had with the child. I offered to teach her. It was my own offer. You
surely did not think that I expected to be paid?”

“I certainly did. Why should you teach her for nothing when I am able
to pay?” returned madame haughtily, while she fingered her roll of
notes. “In your circumstances you can’t afford to throw away your time,
and I’m quite willing to pay you the usual price. You’re a very good
teacher, and I’m very well satisfied with the child’s progress.”

For a moment, Mam’selle Diane was quite overcome by the woman’s
insolence. Then, remembering that she was a d’Hautreve, she drew
herself up, and said calmly and without the least hauteur, “I regret,
Madame, that you thought me a teacher of music. I make no claim to
any professional knowledge, therefore I could not take the pay of a
teacher. I thank you very much, but I am not a teacher.”

“It doesn’t matter. I insist on paying you.” And madame held out a
bank-note for such a large amount that Mam’selle Diane’s eyes were
fairly dazzled.

“I assure you it is impossible,” said Diane gently. “It is useless to
discuss the matter. Will you permit me to open the gate for you?”

“Very well, then,” exclaimed madame, hotly. “I sha’n’t allow my niece
to come here again. I won’t accept favors from any one. She shall have
a teacher that isn’t too proud to take pay.”

“I hope you will not deprive us of the pleasure of seeing Lady Jane. We
are very fond of her,” said Mam’selle Diane, almost humbly, while the
tears gathered on her eyelashes. “Of course you must do as you think
best about the lessons.”

“I sha’n’t allow her to run about the neighborhood any more,” replied
madame, tartly; “she’s losing her pretty manners. I shall keep her
with me in the future,” and with this small parting thrust and a curt
good-morning she went out of the little green gate, and left Mam’selle
Diane to close it behind her with a very heavy heart.

The interview had taken place on the gallery, and Madame d’Hautreve had
heard but little from her bed. “Diane, what did that woman want? What
sent her here at this hour?” quavered the old lady sharply.

“She came on business, mama,” replied Mam’selle Diane, brushing away a
tear.

“Business, business; I hope you have no business with her.”

“She pretended to think I expected to be paid for the lessons I have
given Lady Jane.”

Madame groaned. “I told you we would regret opening our doors to that
child.”

“Oh, mama, I don’t regret it. I only regret that I have lost the
pleasure of seeing her. Madame Jozain will not allow her to come any
more.”

“Ungrateful creature, to insult you after your condescension.”

“Mama, she didn’t insult me,” interrupted Mam’selle Diane, proudly.
“Must I remind _you_ that I am above her insolence?”

“True, my dear, true, and I hope you made her feel that she is a
Jozain.”

“I didn’t wish to be unkind to her, mama. Perhaps she is not so wrong
after all. Sometimes I think it would have been better to have let our
friends know our real circumstances. Then they would have helped me
to get pupils, and I could have earned more teaching music than I can
making pen-wipers, and I am sure it would be more respectable and more
agreeable.”

“Oh, Diane, you surprise me,” cried Madame d’Hautreve, tremulously.
“Think of it! a granddaughter of the Counts d’Hautreve and d’Orgenois
teaching the children of grocers and bakers to play the piano. No, no;
I would rather bury myself here and die in poverty than disgrace our
name in that way.”

Mam’selle Diane made no reply, and after a few moments madame turned on
her pillow to finish her morning nap. Then the last of the d’Hautreves
went into the little garden, and drawing on a pair of old gloves she
dug and trimmed and trained her flowers for some time, and afterwards
gathered up the small piles of seeds from the white papers.

“Oh, oh!” she said wearily, seeing how few they were, “even the flowers
refuse to seed this year.”

After she had finished her work in the garden, she went dejectedly back
to the little room where her mother still slept, and opening a drawer
in her _armoire_ she took out a small box. She sighed heavily as she
raised the lid. Inside on a blue velvet lining lay a slender bracelet
set with turquoises and diamonds. “It must go,” she said sadly to
herself. “I have kept it till the last. I hoped I wouldn’t be obliged
to part with it, but I must. I can’t let poor mama know how needy we
are. It’s the only thing I can spare without telling her. Yes, I must
give it up. I must ask Madame Jourdain to dispose of it for me.” Then
she sat for a long time looking at it silently, while the hot tears
fell on the blue velvet. At last, with a sigh, she bravely wiped her
eyes, and laid the little box under the ducklings in the black basket.

For more than a week Mam’selle Diane did not see Lady Jane, and the
poor woman’s eyes had a suspicious look of tears, as she went about
her duties, silent and dejected. Her only pleasure was no longer a
pleasure; she could not go near the piano for some days. At last, one
evening, she sat down and began to play and sing a little song she had
taught the child, when suddenly she heard, outside the window, the
sweet treble voice she loved so well.

“It’s Lady Jane!” she cried, and springing up so hastily that she upset
the piano-stool she grappled with the rusty bolts of the shutters, and,
for the first time in years, threw them boldly open, and there stood
the child, hugging her bird to her breast, her wan little face lit up
with her sparkling eyes and bright, winsome smile.

Mam’selle Diane went down on her knees, and Lady Jane clung to her neck
and kissed her rapturously over and over.

“Diane, Diane, what are you thinking of, to open that shutter in the
face of every one?” said the old lady feebly.

But Mam’selle Diane did not hear her mother; she was in an ecstasy of
happiness, with the child’s soft lips pressed to her faded cheeks.

“Tante Pauline says I mustn’t come in,” whispered Lady Jane, between
her kisses, “and I must mind what she says.”

“Yes, darling, you must obey her.”

“I’ve been here every day listening, and I haven’t heard you sing
before.”

“Dear child, I couldn’t sing; I missed you so I couldn’t sing.”

“Don’t cry, Mam’selle Diane; I love you dearly. Don’t cry, and I’ll
come every day to the window. Tante Pauline won’t be angry at that.”

“I don’t know, my dear; I’m afraid she will.”

“Diane, close that window instantly,” cried Madame d’Hautreve, quite
beside herself. “A pretty exhibition you’re making before all the
neighbors, on your knees crying over that child.”

“Good-by, darling; come sometimes. Mama don’t like me to open the
window, but I’ll open the gate and speak to you,” said Diane, hastily
returning to herself and the exigencies of her position.

“Forgive me, mama, I really couldn’t help it, I was so glad to see the
child,” and Mam’selle Diane closed the window with a brighter face than
she had shown for several days.

“I think you must be insane, Diane, I surely think you must be, to let
all these common people know that a _blanchisseuse de fin_ will not
allow her child to come into our house, and that you are obliged to go
on your knees and reach out of the window to embrace her. Oh, Diane,
Diane, for the first time you’ve forgotten that you’re a d’Hautreve!”




CHAPTER XXIV

RASTE THE PRODIGAL


About this time, a noticeable change took place in Madame Jozain.
She did not seem nearly so self-satisfied, nor so agreeable to her
customers. They remarked among themselves that something had certainly
gone wrong, for madame was very absent-minded and rather cross, and
was always talking about business being poor, and the quarter growing
duller every day, while the neighbors were a set of curious gossips and
busybodies.

“As soon as they find out that one has had trouble, they blacken one
all they can,” she said bitterly to Madame Fernandez, who was her only
intimate friend.

She spoke cautiously and vaguely of her troubles, for she did not
know whether the news of Raste’s escapade had reached Good Children
Street or not. “I dare say they have seen it in the papers,” she
thought angrily to herself. “Locked up for thirty days, as a suspicious
character! If he had listened to me, and sold that watch at first,
he wouldn’t have got into this trouble. I told him to be careful, but
he was always so headstrong, and now, I don’t know what may happen
any moment. The whole story may get out, through that watch being
talked about in the papers, and perhaps the man that bought it was a
detective. Raste didn’t even find out who bought it. I shall never
feel easy now until Raste is out of the way. As soon as thirty days
are ended, I shall advise him to leave New Orleans for a while. I’m
disgusted with him, to disgrace me in this way, and I don’t want him
here. I can hardly make enough to support myself and that child. If it
wasn’t for the money I’ve hidden away, I should feel discouraged; but
I’ve got that to fall back on. I’m thankful Raste don’t know anything
about it, or he’d get it from me in some way. I’m glad I’ve got rid of
all those things; I’d be afraid to have them by me now. There’s nothing
of any consequence left but that silver jewel-box, and I’ll get that
off my hands the first time I go out.”

Then she thought of the child. Suppose some one should recognize
the child? She was becoming cowardly. A guilty conscience was an
uncomfortable companion. Everything frightened her and made her
suspicious. Madame Paichoux had asked some startling questions; and
besides, she did not know what the child might tell. Children were so
unreliable. One would think they had forgotten everything and did not
see nor hear; then, suddenly, they would drop some word that would lead
to wonderful revelations.

Lady Jane was an intelligent, thoughtful child, and such people as the
d’Hautreves could find out many things from her. Then she congratulated
herself that she had been clever enough to get her away from Mam’selle
Diane, and the Paichoux, too. And that cunning little hunchback,
Pepsie; and old Gex—he was a sly old villain, and no doubt her enemy,
for all he was so affable and polite. Yes, she would keep the child
away from them all as much as possible.

Sometimes she thought it would be best to move away from that quarter
of the city; but then, her going might excite suspicion, so she waited
for further developments with much anxiety.

When Raste’s thirty days were up he came to his mother, very sheepish,
and, apparently, very penitent. To her angry reproaches, he replied
that he had done nothing; that there was no crime in his having the
watch. They didn’t steal the watch; they didn’t ask the poor woman
into their house and rob her. She came there sick, and they took care
of her; and instead of turning her child into the street, they had
treated her as if she belonged to them. As for the watch, he had been
keeping it only until the child was old enough to have it, or until her
relatives turned up; he had never intended to sell it until he found
that it was getting him into trouble, and then he was obliged to get
rid of it.

Madame listened to the plausible arguments of her handsome scapegrace,
and thought that perhaps, after all, there was no real cause for
anxiety; and when he treated his thirty days with fine scorn, as a mere
trifle, a mistake of which no one knew, she felt greatly comforted.

“Respectable people,” he said, “never read about such matters, and,
consequently, none of our friends will ever know of it. It won’t happen
again, for I mean to cut loose from the fellows who led me into that
fix. I mean to go with respectable people. I shall begin all over, and
earn a living in an honest way.”

Madame was delighted; she never knew Raste to talk so reasonably and
to be so thoughtful. After all, his punishment hadn’t done him any
harm. He had had time to think, and these good resolves were the result
of his seclusion from the _friends_ who had nearly proved his ruin.
Therefore, greatly relieved of her anxieties, she took the prodigal
back into her heart and home, and cooked him an excellent supper, not
of a fatted calf, but of a fatted pig that Madame Paichoux had sent her
as a preliminary offering toward closer acquaintance.

For several days Raste remained quietly at work around the house,
assisting his mother in various ways, and showing such a helpful and
kindly disposition that madame was more than ever enchanted with him.
She even went so far as to propose that they should form a partnership
and extend their business.

“My credit is good,” said madame, proudly; “I can buy a larger
stock, and we might hire the store on the corner, and add a grocery
department, by and by.”

“But the capital? We haven’t the capital,” returned Raste doubtfully.

“Oh, I’ll provide the capital, or the credit, which is just as good,”
replied madame, with the air of a millionaire.

“Well,” said Raste, “you go out among the merchants and see what you
can do, and I’ll stay here and wait on the customers. There’s nothing
like getting used to it, you know. But send that young one over to
the ‘Countess,’ or to some of her swell friends. I don’t want to be
bothered with her everlasting questions. Did you ever see such a little
monkey, sitting up holding that long-legged bird, and asking a fellow
a lot of hard questions, as serious as old Father Ducros himself? By
the way, I saw Father Ducros; he’s just back from Cuba. I met him
yesterday, and he asked me why you didn’t come to church.”

Madame went out to see about the new venture with Father Ducros’s
name ringing in her ears, and was absent for several hours. When she
returned she found the house closed and Raste gone.

In a moment Lady Jane came running with the key. Mr. Raste had brought
it to her, and had told her that he was tired tending shop, and was
going for a walk.

Madame smiled, and said as she took the key:

“I thought so; I thought he’d get tired of it, but I can’t expect him
to keep closely to business just at first.”

She took off her bonnet and veil, and put them away; then went limping
about the room, putting it in order. From time to time she smiled. She
had met Madame Paichoux and Marie in the Bon Marché on Rue Royale, and
they had been very agreeable. Madame Paichoux had even invited her to
come and dine with them, to meet Marie’s fiancé. At last they were
beginning to see that she was worthy of some attention, she thought.

Now, if Raste would only behave himself, they could do very well.
With the ready money she had hidden away and by using her credit she
could buy a large stock of goods. She would have more shelves put up,
and a counter, and a fine show-case in the window; and there was the
store on the corner which Raste could fit up as a grocery. Suddenly
she remembered that her rent was due, and that it was about time for
her landlord’s visit. She took out her pocket book and counted its
contents. She had been rather extravagant at the Bon Marché, to impress
Madame Paichoux, and had spent far more than she intended. She found
that she lacked a few dollars of the amount due for rent.

“I must borrow it from the private bank,” she said jocosely, as she
unlocked her bureau.

With the peculiar slyness of such people, she thought her hoard safer
when not too securely concealed. Therefore she had folded up the whole
of her year’s savings, with the amount taken from Lady Jane’s mother,
inside of a pair of partly worn gloves, which were thrown carelessly
among her other clothing in the drawer. It was true she always kept her
bureau locked, and the key was hidden, and she seldom left her house
alone. But even if any one should break it open, she thought they would
never think of unrolling those old gloves.

When she opened the bureau it seemed very disorderly. “I didn’t surely
leave my things in such confusion,” she said, nervously clutching at
the gloves, which were startlingly conspicuous. With trembling hands
and beating heart she unfolded them, but instead of the roll of notes
only a slip of paper was found.

The gloves dropped from her nerveless fingers, and, staggering to her
bed, she sat down on the edge and read the large characters, which were
only too familiar and distinct, although they danced and wavered before
her eyes:

  DEAR MAMA:

 I’ve decided not to go into partnership with you, so I’ll take the
 capital and you can keep the credit. The next time that you secrete
 from your dutiful son money that you have no right to, don’t hide it
 in your old gloves. It isn’t safe. I’m going away on a little trip. I
 need a change after my close application to business. By the way, you
 can tell your inquisitive neighbors that I’ve gone out to my _uncle’s
 ranch in Texas_.

  Your affectionate and devoted son,
  ADRASTE JOZAIN.




CHAPTER XXV

THE JEWEL-BOX


The next day after Raste’s sudden departure, Madame Jozain sat in her
doorway looking very old and worn; her face was of a settled pallor,
and her eyes had a dazed, bewildered expression, as if she had received
a heavy blow that had left her numb and stupid. At times she put her
hand to her head and muttered, “Who would have thought it? Who would
have thought it? His mother, his own mother, and I’ve always been so
good to him.”

Suddenly she seemed to have lost her interest in her business, her
customers, and even her domestic affairs. Her little store was more
untidy than any one had ever seen it. When a neighbor entered to buy a
trifle, or to gossip for a few moments, madame made an effort to appear
cheerful and chatty, but that it was an effort was evident to all. At
last some one asked if she were ill.

“Well, not exactly,” she answered uneasily, “but I might as well be.
The fact is I’m fretting about that boy of mine; he took it in his head
yesterday to go away to his uncle’s ranch. I miss him very much. I
can’t get along without him, and I shouldn’t wonder if I should go too.”

When Pepsie asked what was the matter with “Tante Pauline,” Lady Jane
answered, as she had been instructed, that Tante Pauline had headaches,
because Mr. Raste had gone away and wasn’t coming home for a long time.

“Madame Jozain is fretting about her son’s going away,” observed Madame
Fernandez to her husband, looking across the street. “She’s been
sitting there all the morning so lonesome and miserable that I’m sorry
for her. But there’s some one coming to see her now. A stranger, and so
well-dressed. I wonder who it can be.”

The new-comer was a stranger to Madame Fernandez, but Madame Jozain
welcomed her as an old friend; she sprang up with sudden animation and
shook hands warmly.

“Why, Madame Hortense,” she exclaimed, “what chance brings you to my
little place?”

“A happy chance for you,” replied Madame Hortense, laughing. “I’ve come
to bring you money. I’ve sold the little jewel-case you left with me
the other day, and sold it very well, too.”

“Now, did you? How good of you, my dear! I’m so glad—for the child’s
sake.”

“Would you believe that I got twenty-five dollars for it? You know you
said I might sell it for ten; but I got twenty-five, and I think I
could have sold it for more easily. It is solid silver and an exquisite
thing.”

“Yes, it was of the best workmanship,” sighed madame.

“But I must tell you how I happened to sell it for such a high price.
It’s very strange, and perhaps you can throw some light on the matter.
One of my best customers happened to come in last evening—Mrs. Lanier,
of Jackson Street. You know Lanier, the banker. They are very rich
people. She was looking over the things in my show-case, when she
suddenly exclaimed as if surprised:

“Why, Madame Hortense, where did you get this?” I turned around, and
she had the little jewel-box in her hand, examining it closely, and I
saw that she was quite pale and excited.

“Of course I told her all I knew about it; that a friend had given it
to me to sell, and so on. But she interrupted me by asking where my
friend got it, and all sorts of questions; and all the while, she was
looking at it as if she couldn’t imagine how it got there. I could only
tell her that you gave it to me. Then she asked other questions, so
excitedly that I couldn’t help showing my surprise. But I couldn’t give
her the information she wanted, so I wrote your name and address for
her, and told her to come and see you, and that you would be able to
tell her all about it.”

During Madame Hortense’s hasty and rather confused narrative Madame
Jozain turned an ashy white; and her eyes took on a hunted expression,
while she followed with a set, ghastly smile every word of her friend’s
story.

At length she found strength and composure to say:

“Why, no wonder you were surprised. Didn’t she tell you why she wanted
to know?”

“I suppose she saw that I was very much puzzled, for after looking at
it sadly for some time, she said that it was a mystery how it came
there; that she had given that little casket to a schoolmate ten
years before, while at school in New York; that she had had it made
especially for her, and that her friend’s initials, J. C., were on it.”

“Dear, dear, only think! Some old schoolmate, I suppose,” said Madame
Jozain hastily.

“Then she asked me if I would sell her the little box; and I said
certainly I would, that it was put there to sell. Seeing how anxious
she was to get it, I thought I would put the price at twenty-five
dollars, although I didn’t much think she’d give it. But she never said
a word about the price; she paid it in a dazed way, took your address
that I’d written for her, and went out, carrying the little casket with
her. I suppose she’ll be here to-day or to-morrow to see you; and so I
thought I’d hurry down and tell you all about it.”

“And your commission?” said Madame Jozain, with a visible effort, as
the milliner laid the money on the table.

“Oh, _par exemple_, Madame Jozain! As if I would! No, no; we’re too old
friends. I cannot take pay for doing you a little favor. And besides,
I’m glad to do it for the dear child. She must be a great anxiety to
you.”

“She is!” returned madame, with a heavy sigh, “but she has some
property in Texas, I believe. My son has just gone there, and I’m
thinking of going too. I’m very lonely here.”

“Ah!” said Madame Hortense, surprised. “Why, you are so well placed
here. Shall you go soon?”

“Before very long,” replied madame, who did not care to be more
definite.

“Well, come and see me before you go.”

Madame Hortense drew down her veil, and rose to leave. “I’m sorry I
can’t stay longer to chat with you; I’m busy, very busy. Now mind,
be sure to come and say good-by,” and with a cordial _au revoir_ the
little milliner hurried down the steps and out of sight around the
corner.

For some time after her visitor had gone, Madame Jozain stood quite
still in the middle of her little shop, with her hands pressed to her
head and her eyes fixed on vacancy. At length she muttered to herself:
“She’ll come here; yes, she’ll come here! I can’t see her; I can’t
tell her where I got that box. I must get away at once. I must go out
and find another place. There’ll be no more peace on earth for me! My
punishment’s begun!”

Then madame hurriedly put on her best gown and bonnet, and calling
across to Lady Jane, who was with Pepsie, she said she was going out on
business, and that she might not be back for some time.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE FLIGHT


Late that same afternoon, Madame Jozain was limping slowly and wearily
through a narrow street at the other end of the city, miles away
from Good Children Street, when she saw an old negro sitting on a
furniture-wagon to which two mules were harnessed.

“Is that you, Pete?” she asked, stopping and looking at him.

“Why, law, yes, it’s me, Miss Pauline, an’ I is mighty glad ter see
yer,” said the old man, climbing down.

“And I’m glad to find you, Pete. I see you’ve got a wagon. Is it yours?”

“Well, ’t ain’t edzectly mine, Miss Pauline. I is hired it. But I is
a-drivin’ it.”

“I was just looking for some one to move me to-night, Pete.”

“Ter-night, Miss Pauline? Why, we doesn’t often work a’ter sundown, an’
it’s mos’ dat now.”

“What do you charge for a load, Pete, when you move furniture?”

“I mos’ gen’ly charges two dollars a load—when it ain’t too fur, Miss
Pauline,” he answered slowly.

“Well it _is_ far, Pete; it is from Good Children Street.”

“Oh, Miss Pauline, I can’t do dat dar ter-night. My mules is too tired
for dat.”

Madame stood still and thought for a moment.

“See here, Pete,” she said at length in a tone of decision; “I want
you to remember that you belonged to our family once, and I want you
to listen to me, and do what I tell you. You’re to ask no questions,
nor answer none; mind that! You’re to keep your tongue still. Take your
mules out now, and give them a good feed, and let them rest awhile.
Then be at my house by ten this evening. That will be soon enough, for
I’ve got to pack. If you’ll move me quietly, and without any fuss, I’ll
give you ten dollars for the load.”

“Ten dollars, Miss Pauline?” and the old darky grinned. “Bress yer,
miss, I is a mind ter try it—but it’s a mighty long road!”

[Illustration: MADAME JOZAIN BARGAINS FOR HER MOVING]

“You’ve got plenty of time; you needn’t hurry. Bring a man to help,
and leave your wagon in the side street. I want the things taken out
the back way, and no noise. Mind what I say, _no noise_.”

“All right, Miss Pauline, I’ll be dar _shore_. An’ yer’ll gib me ten
dollars?”

“Yes, ten dollars,” replied madame, as she limped away to take the
street-car.

Some of Madame Jozain’s neighbors remembered afterward that they slept
badly that night—had uneasy dreams and heard mysterious noises; but
as there was a thunder-storm about daybreak, they had concluded that
it was the electricity in the air which caused their restlessness.
However, Pepsie afterward insisted that she had heard Lady Jane cry
out, and call “Pepsie!” as if in great distress or fear, and that about
the same time there were sounds of hushed voices, rumbling of wheels,
and other mysterious noises. But her mother had told her she was
dreaming.

So upset was Pepsie by the night’s experience that she looked quite
pale and ill as she sat by her window next morning, waiting for Madame
Jozain to open the shutters and doors.

How strange! It was eight o’clock, and still no sign of life in the
house opposite! The milkman had rung his bell in vain; the brick-dust
vender had set his bucket of powdered brick on the very steps, and
shrieked his discordant notes close to the door; the clothes-pole man
had sung his dismal song, and the snap-bean woman had chanted her three
syllables, not unmusically, and yet no one appeared to open the door of
Madame Jozain’s house.

At last Pepsie could endure her suspense no longer.

“You go and see what is the matter,” she said to her little handmaid.

So Tite zigzagged across the street, flew up the steps, and pounded
vigorously on the door; then she tried the shutters and the gate, and
finally even climbed the fence, and peeped in at the black windows. In
a trice she was back, gasping and wild-eyed:

“Bress yer, Miss Peps’. W’at I done tol’ yer? Dem’s all gone. Ain’t a
stick or nofin’ in dat dar house! Jes’ ez empty ez a gourd!”

At first Pepsie would not believe the dreadful news; but finally, when
she was convinced that madame had fled in the night and taken Lady
Jane with her, she sank into the very depths of woe and refused to be
comforted.

Then Paichoux and Tante Modeste were called into a family council, and
Paichoux did his very best to solve the mystery. But all he could learn
was from madame’s landlord, who said that Madame Jozain had paid her
rent and given up her key, saying that she had decided, very suddenly,
to follow her son. This was all the information the landlord could
give, and Paichoux returned dejectedly with this meager result.

“I had my plans,” he said, “and I was waiting for the right moment to
put them in operation. Now, the child has disappeared, and I can do
nothing.”

The next day Pepsie, sitting sorrowfully at her window, trying to find
consolation in a game of solitaire, saw a private carriage drive up to
the empty house and wait, while the servant made inquiries for Madame
Jozain.

“Madame Jozain _did_ live there,” said M. Fernandez politely, “but she
went away between two days, and we know nothing at all about her. There
was something strange about it, or she never would have left without
telling her friends good-by, and leaving some future address.”

The servant imparted this scanty information to the lady in the
carriage, who drove away looking greatly disappointed.

The arrival of this elegant visitor directly following upon madame’s
flight furnished a subject for romantic conjecture.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Pepsie, “if that was Lady’s mama, who has
come back after all! Oh, how dreadful that she wasn’t here to see her!”
and then poor Pepsie cried, and would not be consoled.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE LITTLE STREET SINGER


It was Christmas Eve, and very nearly dark, when Mrs. Lanier, driving
up St. Charles Avenue in her comfortable carriage quite filled with
costly presents for her children, noticed a forlorn little figure,
standing alone at a street corner. There was something about the
sorrowful looking little figure that moved her strangely, for she
turned and watched it as long as she could discern the child’s face in
the gathering twilight.

It was a little girl, thinly clad in a soiled and torn white frock;
her black stockings were full of holes, and her shoes so worn that the
tiny white toes were visible through the rents. She hugged a thin,
faded shawl around her shoulders, and her yellow hair fell in matted,
tangled strands below her waist; her small face was pale and pinched,
and had a woe-begone look that would melt the hardest heart. Although
she was soiled and ragged, she did not look like a common child, and
it was that indefinable something in her appearance that attracted Mrs.
Lanier’s attention, for she thought as the carriage whirled by and left
the child far behind, “Poor little thing! she didn’t look like a street
beggar. I wish I had stopped and spoken to her!”

It was Lady Jane, and her descent in the scale of misery had been rapid
indeed.

Since that night, some four months before, when Madame Jozain had
awakened her rudely and told her she must come away, she had lived in
a sort of wretched stupor. It was true she had resisted at first, and
had cried desperately for Pepsie, for Mam’selle Diane, for Gex—but all
in vain; Madame had scolded and threatened and frightened her into
submission.

That terrible midnight ride in the wagon, with the piled-up furniture,
the two black drivers, who seemed to the child’s distorted imagination
two frightful demons, madame angry, and at times violent if she
complained or cried, and the frightful threats and cruel hints of a
more dreadful fate, had so crushed and appalled the child that she
scarcely dared open her pale little lips either to protest or plead.

Then the pitiful change in her life, from loving care and pleasant
companionship to utter squalid misery and neglect. She had been,
suddenly taken from comparative comfort and plunged into the most
cruel poverty. Good Children Street had been a paradise compared to
the narrow, dirty lane, on the outskirts of the city, where madame had
hidden herself; for the wretched woman, in her fear and humiliation,
seemed to have lost every vestige of ambition, and to have sunk without
the least effort to save herself, to a level with those around her.

Madame had taken a terrible cold in her hurried flight, and it had
settled in her lame hip; therefore she was obliged to lie in her bed
most of the time, and the little money she had was soon spent. Hunger
was staring her in the face, and the cold autumn winds chilled her
to the marrow. She had been poor and in many bitter straits, but
never before like this. Now she dared not let any one know of her
whereabouts, and for that reason the few friends that she still had
could not help her. She was ill and suffering, and alone in her misery.
Her son had robbed and deserted her, and left her to her punishment,
and, for all she knew, she must die of starvation. Through the aid of
the negro Pete, she had parted with nearly everything of value that
she had, and, to crown her cruelty and Lady Jane’s misery, one day when
the child was absent on a begging expedition she sold the blue heron to
an Italian for two dollars.

The bird was the only comfort the unhappy little creature had, the only
link between the past and the miserable present, and when she returned
to her squalid home and found her only treasure gone, her grief was so
wild and uncontrollable that madame feared for her life. Therefore, in
order to quiet the child, she said the bird had broken his string and
strayed away.

After this, the child spent her days wandering about searching for Tony.

When madame first sent her out into the street to sing and beg, she
went without a protest, so perfect was her habit of obedience, and so
great her anxiety to please and conciliate her cruel tyrant. For, since
the night when madame fled from Good Children Street, she had thrown
off all her pretenses of affection for the hapless little one, whom she
considered the cause of all her misfortunes.

“She has made trouble enough for me,” she would say bitterly, in her
hours of silent communion with her own conscience. “If it hadn’t been
for her mother coming to me, Raste wouldn’t have had that watch and
wouldn’t have got locked up for thirty days. After that disgrace, he
couldn’t stay here, and that was the cause of his taking my money and
running off. Yes, all my trouble has come through her in one way or
another, and now she must sing and beg, or she’ll have to starve.”

Before madame sent her out, she gave Lady Jane instructions in the
most imperative manner. “She must never on any account speak of Good
Children Street, of Madelon or Pepsie, of the d’Hautreves, of Gex, or
the Paichoux, or of any one she had ever known there. She must not talk
with people, and, above all, she must never tell her name, nor where
she lived. She must only sing and hold out her hand. Sometimes she
might cry if she wanted to, but she must _never_ laugh.”

These instructions the child followed to the letter, with the exception
of one. She never cried, for although her little heart was breaking she
was too proud to shed tears.

It was astonishing how many nickels she picked up. Sometimes she would
come home with her little pocket quite heavy, for her wonderful voice,
so sweet and so pathetic, as well as her sad face and wistful eyes,
touched many a heart, even among the coarsest and rudest, and madame
might have reaped quite a harvest if she had not been so avaricious as
to sell Tony for two dollars. When she did that she killed her goose
that laid golden eggs, for after the loss of her pet the child could
not sing; her little heart was too heavy, and the unshed tears choked
her and drowned her voice in quivering sobs.

The moment she was out of Tante Pauline’s sight, instead of gathering
nickels, she was wandering around aimlessly, searching and asking for
the blue heron, and at night, when she returned with an empty pocket,
she shivered and cowered into a corner for fear of madame’s anger.

One morning it was very cold; she had had no breakfast, and she felt
tired and ill, and when madame told her to go out and not to come back
without some money, she fell to crying piteously, and for the first
time begged and implored to stay where she was, declaring that she
could not sing any more, and that she was afraid, because some rude
children had thrown mud at her the day before, and told her not to come
into the street again.

This first revolt seemed to infuriate madame, for reaching out to where
the child stood trembling and sobbing she clutched her and shook her
violently, and then slapping her tear-stained little face until it
tingled, she bade her go out instantly, and not to return unless she
brought some money with her.

This was the first time that Lady Jane had suffered the ignominy of
a blow, and it seemed to arouse her pride and indignation, for she
stopped sobbing instantly, and, wiping the tears resolutely from her
face, shot one glance of mingled scorn and surprise at her tyrant, and
walked out of the room with the dignity of a little princess.

When once outside, she held her hands for a moment to her burning face,
while she tried to still the tumult of anger and sorrow that was raging
in her little heart; then she gathered herself together with a courage
beyond her years, and hurried away without once looking back at the
scene of her torture.

When she was far enough from the wretched neighborhood to feel safe
from observation, she turned in a direction quite different from any
she had taken before. The wind was intensely cold, but the sun shone
brightly, and she hugged her little shawl around her, and ran on and on
swiftly and hopefully.

“If I hurry and walk and walk just as fast as I can, I’m sure to come
to Good Children Street, and then I’ll ask Pepsie or Mam’selle Diane to
keep me, for I’ll never, _never_, go back to Tante Pauline again.”

By and by, when she was quite tired with running and walking, she
came to a beautiful, broad avenue that she had never seen before.
There were large, fine houses, and gardens blooming brightly even in
the chilly December wind, and lovely children; dressed in warm velvet
and furs, walking with their nurses on the wide, clean sidewalks; and
every moment carriages drawn by glossy, prancing horses whirled by, and
people laughed and talked merrily, and looked so happy and contented.
She had never seen anything like it before. It was all delightful,
like a pleasant dream, and even better than Good Children Street. She
thought of Pepsie, and wished that she could see it, and then she
imagined how enchanted her friend would be to ride in one of those fine
carriages, with the sun shining on her, and the fresh wind blowing
in her face. The wind reminded her that she was cold. It pierced
through her thin frock and scanty skirts, and the holes in her shoes
and stockings made her ashamed. After a while she found a sunny corner
on the steps of a church, where she crouched and tried to cover her
dilapidated shoes with her short skirts.

Presently a merry group of children passed, and she heard them talking
of Christmas. “To-morrow is Christmas; this is Christmas Eve, and we
are going to have a Christmas-tree.” Her heart gave a great throb of
joy. By to-morrow she was sure to find Pepsie, and Pepsie had promised
her a Christmas-tree long ago, and she wouldn’t forget; she was sure
to have it ready for her. Oh, if she only dared ask some of these
kind-looking people to show her the way to Good Children Street! But
she remembered what Tante Pauline had told her, and fear kept her
silent. However, she was sure, now that she had got away from that
dreadful place, that some one would find her. Mr. Gex had found her
before when she was lost, and he might find her now, because she didn’t
have a domino on, and he would know her right away; and then she would
get Mr. Gex to hunt for Tony, and perhaps she would have Tony for
Christmas. In this way she comforted herself until she was quite happy.

After a while a kind-looking woman came along with a market-basket on
her arm. She was eating something, and Lady Jane, being very hungry
looked at her so wistfully that the woman stopped and asked her if
she would like a piece of bread. She replied eagerly that she would.
The good woman gave her a roll and a large, rosy apple, and she went
back to her corner and munched them contentedly. Then a fine milk-cart
rattled up to a neighboring door, and her heart almost leaped to her
throat; but it was not Tante Modeste. Still, Tante Modeste might come
any moment. She sold milk way up town to rich people. Yes, she was sure
to come; so she sat in her corner and ate her apple, and waited with
unwavering confidence.

And in this way the day passed pleasantly and comfortably to Lady Jane.
She was not very cold in her sheltered corner, and the good woman’s
kindness had satisfied her hunger; but at last she began to think that
it must be nearly night, for she saw the sun slipping down into the
cold, gray clouds behind the opposite houses, and she wondered what
she should do and where she should go when it was quite dark. Neither
Tante Modeste nor Mr. Gex had come, and now it was too late and she
would have to wait until to-morrow. Then she began to reproach herself
for sitting still. “I should have gone on and on, and by this time I
would have been in Good Children Street,” said she.

She never thought of returning to her old haunts or to Tante Pauline,
and if she had tried she could not have found her way back. She had
wandered too far from her old landmarks, so the only thing to do was
to press on in her search for Good Children Street. It was while she
was standing at a corner, uncertain which way to turn, that Mrs. Lanier
caught a glimpse of her. And what good fortune it would have been to
Lady Jane if that noble-hearted woman had obeyed the kindly impulse
that urged her to stop and speak to the friendless little waif! But
destiny intended it to be otherwise, so she went on her way to her
luxurious home and happy children, while the desolate orphan wandered
about in the cold and darkness, looking in vain for the humble friends
who even at that moment were thinking of her and longing for her.

Poor little soul! she had never been out in the dark night alone
before, and every sound and movement startled her. Once a dog sprang
out and barked at her, and she ran trembling into a doorway, only to
be ordered away by an unkind servant. Sometimes she stopped and looked
into the windows of the beautiful houses as she passed. There were
bright fires, pictures, and flowers, and she heard the merry voices
of children laughing and playing; and the soft notes of a piano, with
some one singing, reminded her of Mam’selle Diane. Then a choking sob
would rise in her throat, and she would cover her face and cry a little
silently.

Presently she found herself before a large, handsome house; the blinds
were open and the parlor was brilliantly lighted. A lady—it was Mrs.
Lanier—sat at the piano playing a waltz, and two little girls in white
frocks and red sashes were dancing together. Lady Jane pressed near the
railing and devoured the scene with wide, sparkling eyes. They were
the same steps that Gex had taught her, and it was the very waltz that
he sometimes whistled. Before she knew it, quite carried away by the
music, and forgetful of everything, she dropped her shawl, and holding
out her soiled ragged skirt, was tripping and whirling as merrily as
the little ones within, while opposite to her, her shadow, thrown by a
street lamp over her head, tripped and bobbed and whirled, not unlike
Mr. Gex, the ancient “professeur of the dance.” And a right merry time
she had out there in the biting December night, pirouetting with her
own shadow.

Suddenly the music stopped, a nurse came and took the little girls
away, and some one drew down the blinds and shut her out alone in the
cold; there was nothing then for her to do but to move on, and picking
up her shawl, she crept away a little wearily, for dancing, although
it had lightened her heart, had wasted her strength, and it seemed to
her that the wind was rising and the cold becoming more intense, for
she shivered from time to time, and her bare little toes and fingers
smarted badly. Once or twice, from sheer exhaustion, she dropped down
on a doorstep, but when she saw any one approaching she sprang up and
hurried along, trying to be brave and patient. Yes, she must come to
Good Children Street very soon, and she never turned a corner that she
did not expect to see Madelon’s little house, wedged in between the two
tall ones, and the light gleaming from Pepsie’s small window.




CHAPTER XXVIII

LADY JANE FINDS SHELTER


At last, when she began to feel very tired and sleepy, she came to a
place where two streets seemed to run together in a long point, and
before her she saw a large building, with lights in all the windows,
and behind it a tall church spire seemed nearly to touch the stars that
hung above it so soft and bright. Her tearful eyes singled out two of
them very near together that looked as though they were watching her,
and she held out her arms, and murmured, “Papa, mama, can’t I come
to you? I’m so cold and sleepy.” Poor little soul! the stars made no
answer to her piteous appeal, but continued to twinkle as serenely as
they have done since time began, and will do until it ends. Then she
looked again toward the brilliantly lighted windows under the shadow
of the church spire. She could not get very near, for in front of the
house was an iron railing, but she noticed a marble slab let into the
wall over the porch, on which was an inscription, and above it a row
of letters were visible in the light from the street lamps. Lady Jane
spelled them out. “‘Orphans’ Home.’ Or-phans! I wonder what orphans
are? Oh, how warm and light it is in there!” Then she put her little
cold toes between the iron railings on the stone coping, and clinging
with her two hands lifted herself a little higher, and there she saw an
enchanting sight. In the center of the room was a tree, a real tree,
growing nearly to the ceiling, with moss and flowers on the ground
around it, and never did the spreading branches of any other tree bear
such glorious fruit. There was a great deal of light and color; and
moving, swaying balls of silver and gold danced and whirled before
her dazzled eyes. At first she could hardly distinguish the different
objects in the confusion of form and color; but at last she saw that
there was everything the most exacting child could desire—birds,
rabbits, dogs, kittens, dolls; globes of gold, silver, scarlet, and
blue; tops, pictures, games, bonbons, sugared fruits, apples, oranges,
and little frosted cakes, in such bewildering profusion that they
were like the patterns in a kaleidoscope. And there was a merry group
of girls, laughing and talking, while they hung, and pinned, and
fastened, more and more, until it seemed as if the branches would break
under their load.

And Lady Jane, clinging to the railing, with stiff, cold hands and
aching feet, pressed her little, white face close to the iron bars, and
looked and looked.

Suddenly the door was opened, and a woman came out, who, when she saw
the child clinging to the railing, bareheaded and scantily clothed in
spite of the piercing cold, went to her and spoke kindly and gently.

Her voice brought Lady Jane back from Paradise to the bitter reality
of her position and the dreary December night. For a moment she could
hardly move, and she was so chilled and cramped that when she unclasped
her hold she almost fell into the motherly arms extended toward her.

“My child, my poor child, what are you doing here so late, in the cold,
and with these thin clothes? Why don’t you go home?”

Then the poor little soul, overcome with a horrible fear, began to
shiver and cry. “Oh, don’t! Oh, please don’t send me back to Tante
Pauline! I’m afraid of her; she shook me and struck me this morning,
and I’ve run away from her.”

[Illustration: LADY JANE, CLINGING TO THE RAILING, LOOKED AND LOOKED]

“Where does your Tante Pauline live?” asked the woman, studying the
tremulous little face with a pair of keen, thoughtful eyes.

“I don’t know; away over there somewhere.”

“Don’t you know the name of the street?”

“It isn’t a street; it’s a little place all mud and water, with boards
to walk on.”

“Can’t you tell me your aunt’s name?”

“Yes, it’s Tante Pauline.”

“But her other name?”

“I don’t know, I only know Tante Pauline. Oh please, _please_ don’t
send me there! I’m afraid to go back, because she said I must sing and
beg money, and I couldn’t sing, and I didn’t like to ask people for
nickels,” and the child’s voice broke into a little wail of entreaty
that touched the kind heart of that noble, tender, loving woman, the
Margaret whom some to-day call Saint Margaret. She had heard just such
pitiful stories before from hundreds of hapless little orphans, who
never appealed to her in vain.

“Where are your father and mother?” she asked, as she led the child to
the shelter of the porch.

Lady Jane made the same pathetic answer as usual:

“Papa went to heaven, and Tante Pauline says that mama’s gone away, and
I think she’s gone where papa is.”

Margaret’s eyes filled with tears, while the child shivered and clung
closer to her. “Would you like to stay here to-night, my dear?” she
asked, as she opened the door. “This is the home of a great many little
homeless girls, and the good Sisters love and care for them all.”

Lady Jane’s anxious face brightened instantly. “Oh, can I—can I stay
here where the Christmas-tree is?”

“Yes, my child, and to-morrow there will be something on it for you.”

And Margaret opened the door and led Lady Jane into that safe and
comfortable haven where so many hapless little ones have found a
shelter.

That night, after the child had been fed and warmed, and was safely in
bed with the other little orphans, the good Margaret sent word to all
the police stations that she had housed a little wanderer who if called
for could be found safe in her care.

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.

“What is it, papa, what is it?” she cried.

And in reply Paichoux read aloud the notice of the death of Madame _la
veuve_ d’Hautreve, _née_ d’Orgenois; and directly underneath: “Died at
the Charity Hospital, Madame Pauline Jozain, _née_ Bergeron.”




CHAPTER XXIX

TANTE MODESTE FINDS LADY JANE


When Paichoux read of the death of Madame Jozain in the Charity
Hospital, he said decidedly: “Modeste, that woman never left the city.
She never went to Texas. She has been hidden here all the time, and I
must find that child.”

“And if you find her, papa, bring her right here to me,” said the
kind-hearted woman. “We have a good many children, it’s true; but
there’s always room for Lady Jane, and I love the little thing as well
as if she were mine.”

Paichoux was gone nearly all day, and, much to the disappointment of
the whole family, did not find Lady Jane.

His first visit had been to the Charity Hospital, where he learned that
Madame Jozain had been brought there a few days before by the charity
wagon. It had been called to a miserable little cabin back of the city,
where they had found the woman very ill, with no one to care for her,
and destitute of every necessity. There was no child with her—she was
quite alone; and in the few lucid intervals that preceded her death she
had never spoken of any child. Paichoux then obtained the directions
from the driver of the charity wagon, and after some search he found
the wretched neighborhood. There all they could tell him was that the
woman had come a few weeks before; that she had brought very little
with her, and appeared to be suffering. There was no child with her
then, and none of the neighbors had ever seen one visit her, or, for
that matter, a grown person either. When she became worse they were
afraid she might die alone, and had called the charity wagon to take
her to the hospital. The Public Administrator had taken charge of what
little she left, and that was all they could tell.

Did any one know where she lived before she came there? No one knew; an
old negro had brought her and her few things, and they had not noticed
the number of his wagon. The landlord of the squalid place said that
the same old man who brought her had engaged her room; he did not know
the negro. Madame had paid a month’s rent in advance, and just when
the month was up she had been carried to the hospital.

There the information stopped, and, in spite of every effort, Paichoux
could learn no more. The wretched woman had indeed obliterated, as it
were, every trace of the child. In her fear of detection, after Lady
Jane’s escape from her, she had moved from place to place, hunted and
pursued by a guilty conscience that would never allow her to rest,
and gradually going from bad to worse until she had died in that last
refuge for the miserable, the Charity Hospital.

“And here I am, just where I started!” said Paichoux dejectedly, after
he had told Tante Modeste of his day’s adventure. “However,” said he,
“I sha’n’t give it up. I’m bound to find out what she did with that
child; the more I think of it, the more I’m convinced that she never
went to Texas, and that the child is still here. Now I’ve a mind to
visit every orphan asylum in the city, and see if I can’t find her in
one of them.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Tante Modeste. “We’ll see for ourselves, and
then we shall be satisfied. Unless she gave Lady Jane away, she’s
likely to be in some such place; and I think, as I always have,
Paichoux, that she stole Lady Jane from some rich family, and that was
why she ran off so sudden and hid. That lady’s coming the day after
proves that some one was on madame’s track. Oh, I tell you there’s a
history there, if we can only get at it. We’ll start out to-morrow
and see what can be done. I sha’n’t rest until the child is found and
restored to her own people.”

One morning, while Lady Jane was in the schoolroom busy with her
lessons, Margaret entered with some visitors. It was a very common
thing for people to come during study hours, and the child did not look
up until she heard some one say: “These are the children of that age.
See if you recognize ‘Lady Jane’ among them.”

It was her old name that startled her, and made her turn suddenly
toward the man and woman, who were looking eagerly about the room.
In an instant the bright-faced woman cried, “Yes! yes! Oh, there she
is!” and simultaneously Lady Jane exclaimed, “Tante Modeste, oh, Tante
Modeste!” and, quicker than I can tell it, she was clasped to the
loving heart of her old friend, while Paichoux looked on, twirling his
hat and smiling broadly.

“Jane, you can come with us,” said Margaret, as she led the way to the
parlor.

There was a long and interesting conversation, to which the child
listened with grave wonder, while she nestled close to Tante Modeste.
She did not understand all they said; there was a great deal about
Madame Jozain and Good Children Street, and a gold watch with diamond
initials, and beautiful linen with initial letters, J. C., embroidered
on it, and madame’s sudden flight, and the visit of the elegant lady in
the fine carriage, the Texas story, and madame’s wretched hiding-place
and miserable death in the Charity Hospital; to all of which Margaret
listened with surprise and interest. Then she in turn told the Paichoux
how Lady Jane had been found looking in the window on Christmas Eve,
while she clung to the railings, half-clad and suffering with the cold,
and how she had questioned her and endeavored to get some clue to her
identity.

“Why didn’t you tell Mother Margaret about your friends in Good
Children Street, my dear?” asked Tante Modeste, with one of her bright
smiles.

Lady Jane hesitated a moment, and then replied timidly, “Because I was
afraid.”

“What were you afraid of, my child?” asked Paichoux kindly.

“Tante Pauline told me that I mustn’t.” Then she stopped and looked
wistfully at Margaret. “Must I tell now, Mother Margaret? Will it be
right to tell? Tante Pauline told me not to.”

“Yes, my dear, you can tell everything now. It’s right. You must tell
us all you remember.”

“Tante Pauline told me that I must never, never speak of Good Children
Street nor of any one that lived there, and that I must never tell any
one my name, nor where I lived.”

“Poor child!” said Margaret to Paichoux. “There must have been
some serious reason for so much secrecy. Yes, I agree with you
that there’s a mystery which we must try to clear up, but I would
rather wait a little while. Jane has a friend who is very rich and
very influential—Mrs. Lanier, the banker’s wife. She is absent in
Washington, and when she returns I’ll consult with her, and we’ll see
what’s best to be done. I shouldn’t like to take any important step
until then. But in the meantime, Mr. Paichoux, it will do no harm to
put your plan in operation. I think the idea is good, and in this way
we can work together.”

Then Paichoux promised to begin his investigations at once, for he was
certain that they would bring about some good results, and that, before
many months had passed, Mother Margaret would have one orphan less to
care for.

While Margaret and Paichoux were discussing these important matters,
Tante Modeste and Lady Jane were talking as fast as their tongues could
fly. The child heard for the first time about poor Mam’selle Diane’s
loss, and her eyes filled with tears of sympathy for her gentle friend.
And then, there were Pepsie and Madelon, Gex and Tite—did they remember
her and want to see her? Oh, how glad she was to hear from them all
again; and Tante Modeste cried a little when Lady Jane told of that
terrible midnight ride, of the wretched home she had been carried to,
of her singing and begging in the streets, of her cold and hunger, and
of the blow she had received as the crowning cruelty.

“But the worst of all was losing Tony. Oh, Tante Modeste!” and the
tears sprang to her eyes, “I’m afraid I’ll never, never find him!”

“Yes, you will, my dear. I’ve faith to believe you will,” replied Tante
Modeste hopefully.

“We’ve found you, _ma petite_, and now we’ll find the bird. Don’t fret
about it.”

Then after Margaret had promised to take Lady Jane to Good Children
Street the next day, the good couple went away well pleased with what
they had accomplished.

Tante Modeste could not return home until she had told Pepsie as well
as little Gex the good news. And Mam’selle Diane’s sad heart was
greatly cheered to know that the dear child was safe in the care of the
good Margaret. And oh, what bright hopes and plans filled the lonely
hours of that evening, as she sat dreaming on her little gallery in the
pale, cold moonlight!

The next day Pepsie cried and laughed together when Lady Jane sprang
into her arms and embraced her with her old fervor. “You’re just the
same,” she said, holding the child off and looking at her fondly; “that
is, your face hasn’t changed; but I don’t like your hair braided, and I
don’t like your clothes. I must get Mother Margaret to let me dress you
as I used to.”

And Mam’selle Diane had something of the same feeling when, after the
first long embrace, she looked at the child and asked Mother Margaret
if it was necessary for her to wear the uniform of the Home. “She must
wear it while she is an inmate,” replied Margaret smiling. “But that
will not be long, I suspect. We shall lose her—yes, I’m afraid we shall
lose her soon.”

Then Mam’selle Diane talked a long while with Margaret about her hopes
and plans for Lady Jane. “I am all alone,” she said pathetically, “and
she would give me a new interest in life. If her relatives are not
discovered, why cannot I have her? I will educate her, and teach her
music, and devote my life to her.”

Margaret promised to think it over, and in the mean time she consented
that Lady Jane should remain a few days with Mam’selle Diane and her
friends in Good Children Street.

That night, while the child was nestled close to Mam’selle Diane as
they sat together on the little moonlit gallery, she suddenly asked
with startling earnestness:

“Has your mama gone to heaven, too, Mam’selle Diane?”

“I hope so, my darling; I think so,” replied Diane in a choked voice.

“Well, then, if she has, she’ll see my papa and mama, and tell them
about me, and oh, Mam’selle, won’t they be glad to hear from me?”

“I hope she will tell them how dearly I love you, and what you are to
me,” murmured Mam’selle, pressing her cheeks to the bright little head
resting against her shoulder.

“Look up there, Mam’selle Diane, do you see those two beautiful stars
so near together? I always think they are mama and papa, watching me.
Now I know mama is there, too, and will never come back again; and
see, near those there is another very soft and bright, perhaps that is
_your_ mama shining there with them.”

“Perhaps it is, my dear—yes, perhaps it is,” and Mam’selle Diane raised
her faded eyes toward the sky, with new hope and strength in their calm
depths.

About that time Paichoux began a most laborious correspondence with a
fashionable jeweler in New York, which resulted in some very valuable
information concerning a watch with a diamond monogram.




CHAPTER XXX

AT MRS. LANIER’S


It was a few days before the following Christmas, and Mrs. Lanier, who
had just returned from Washington, was sitting alone one evening in her
own pretty little parlor, when a servant handed her a card.

“Arthur Maynard,” she read. “Let him come up at once”; and as the
servant left the room she added to herself: “Dear boy! I’m so glad he’s
come for Christmas.”

In a moment a handsome young fellow was in the room, shaking hands in
the most cordial way.

“You see I’m home, as usual, for the holidays, Mrs. Lanier,” he said,
showing a row of very white teeth when he laughed.

“Yes, you always do come for Christmas and Mardi-gras, don’t you?
You’re such a boy still, Arthur,” and Mrs. Lanier looked at him as if
she approved of his boyishness. “Sit down and let us have a long chat.
The children have gone to the theater with Mr. Lanier. I was too tired
to go with them. You know we reached home only this morning.”

“No. I didn’t know that or I wouldn’t have come. You don’t want to be
bothered with me when you’re so tired,” said Arthur, rising.

“Nonsense, Arthur; sit down. You always cheer me up. You’re so full of
life and spirits, I’m really glad to see you.”

While Mrs. Lanier was speaking, the young fellow’s bright, clear eyes
were traveling about the room, and glancing at everything, pictures,
_bric-à-brac_, and flowers. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, and,
springing up, seized a photograph in a velvet frame that stood on a
cabinet near him.

It represented a family group, father, mother, and child; and for a
moment he seemed too surprised to speak. Then he asked, in a very
excited tone, “Mrs. Lanier, where did you get this—and who is the lady?”

“She is a friend of mine,” said Mrs. Lanier, much surprised. “Why do
you ask—have you ever seen her?”

“Yes, yes; and I have a copy of this picture. It is such a strange
story; but first, before I say a word, please tell me who she is, and
all about her.”

“Why, Arthur, you seem greatly interested,” returned Mrs. Lanier, with
a smile. “The lady is my dear friend, Jane Chetwynd. We were classmates
at boarding-school in New York; her father is the rich Mr. Chetwynd.
You have heard of him, haven’t you?”

“Yes, indeed; but please go on.”

“Do you want all the history?”

“Everything, please. I’ve a serious reason for wanting to know all
about the originals of this photograph.”

“Well, the gentleman is Jane’s husband, Mr. Churchill, an Englishman,
and the little girl is ‘Lady Jane,’ their only child. There’s quite a
romance connected with Jane’s history, and I’m just now floundering in
a sea of darkness in regard to that same Jane Chetwynd.”

“If you please, go on, and perhaps I can help you out,” urged the young
man, eagerly and abruptly.

“Well, as it’s a subject I’m greatly interested in, I don’t mind
telling you the whole story. Jane Chetwynd was the only daughter; her
mother died when she was a child. Jane was her father’s idol; he had
great plans for her, and when she was only eighteen he hoped she would
marry one of the rich Bindervilles. Jane, however, married a young
Englishman who was in her father’s employ. The young man was handsome,
as you can see by his picture, well born, and well educated; but he
was unknown and poor. To Richard Chetwynd that was unpardonable, and
therefore he disowned Jane—cut her off entirely, refused to see her, or
even to allow her name to be mentioned.

“A cousin of Mr. Churchill, who lived in England, owned a fine ranch in
Texas, and there the young couple went to pass their honeymoon. They
were delighted with the ranch, and decided to make it a permanent home.

“Their little girl was born there, and was named for her mother. On
account of some dainty little ways, and to avoid confusion, her father
called her Lady Jane.

“In her frequent letters to me, my friend spoke of her as a remarkable
child, and of course she was the idol of her parents. In spite of the
trouble with her father, Jane never regretted her choice, and even her
isolated life had many charms for her. She was of a quiet, domestic
disposition, and loved the country. Indeed, I know her life there was
one of idyllic happiness. When the child was three years old Jane sent
me that picture; then about two more years passed, during which time I
heard from her frequently, and after that suddenly the correspondence
stopped. I was in Europe for a year, and when I returned I set to work
to find out the cause. Many letters were returned from San Antonio,
the nearest post-office; but finally we succeeded in communicating
with the overseer on the ranch, who informed us that Mr. Churchill had
died suddenly of a prevalent fever, the summer before,—more than two
years ago now,—and that Mrs. Churchill with her little girl had left
the ranch directly after her husband’s death to return to New York,
since which time he had received no news of her; and the overseer
also expressed surprise in his letter at her long silence, as he said
she had left many valuable things that were to be sent to her when
and where she should direct, after she reached New York; he had since
received no instructions, and the property was still lying there.

“Then I wrote directly to New York to a friend who was very intimate at
one time with the Chetwynds, for some information about Jane; but she
could tell me nothing more than the newspapers told me, that Richard
Chetwynd had gone abroad, to remain some years. Of Jane I could not
hear a word.

“Sometimes I think she may have followed her father to Europe, and that
they are reconciled and living there together. But why does she not
write to me—to the friend whom she always loved so dearly?

“Then there is another thing that has worried me no little, although in
itself it is a trifle. When we were at school together I had a little
birthday gift made at Tiffany’s for Jane, a silver jewel-box, engraved
with pansies and forget-me-nots, and a lot of school-girl nonsense. I
made the design myself, and the design for the monogram also. About
a year ago I found _that very box_ for sale at Madame Hortense’s, on
Canal Street. When I asked Hortense where she got it, she told me that
it was left with her to sell by a woman who lived down town on Good
Children Street, and she gave me the name and address; but when I went
there a day or two afterwards the woman had gone,—left mysteriously in
the night, and none of the neighbors could tell me where she went. Of
course the woman’s sudden disappearance made me feel that there was
something wrong about her, and I can’t help thinking that she got the
little box dishonestly. It may have been stolen, either in Texas or in
New York, and finally drifted here for sale. I got possession of it at
once, very thankful that such a precious relic of my girlhood should
have accidentally fallen into my hands; but every time I look at it I
feel that it is a key which might unlock a mystery if only I knew how
to use it.”

All the while Mrs. Lanier was speaking, Arthur Maynard followed every
word with bright, questioning eyes and eager, intense interest.
Sometimes he seemed about to interrupt her; then he closed his lips
firmly and continued to listen.

Mrs. Lanier was looking at him inquiringly, and when he waited as if to
hear more she said: “I have told you all. Now what have you to tell me?”

“Something quite as strange as anything you have told me,” replied
Arthur Maynard, with an enigmatical air. “You must not think you’re the
only one with a mystery worthy the skill of a Parisian detective. If I
had any such talent I might make myself famous, with your clues and my
clues together.”

“What in the world do you mean, Arthur? What do you know?—for pity’s
sake, tell me! You can’t think how Jane Chetwynd’s long silence
distresses me.”

“Fool that I was!” cried the young fellow, jumping up and pacing the
room with a half-tragic air. “If I hadn’t been an idiot—a simpleton—a
gosling—if I’d had a spark of sense, I could have brought that same
Jane Chetwynd, and the adorable little Lady Jane, straight to your
door. Instead of that, I let them get off the train at Gretna alone
when it was nearly dark, and—Heaven only knows what has happened to
them!”

“Arthur Maynard, what _do_ you mean?” asked Mrs. Lanier, rising to her
feet, pale and trembling. “When—where—where is she now—where is Jane
Chetwynd?”

“I wish I knew. I’m as wretched and anxious as you are, Mrs. Lanier,
and what has happened to-day has quite upset me; but I must tell you my
story, as you have told yours.”

And then, while Mrs. Lanier listened with clasped hands and intent
gaze, Arthur Maynard told of the meeting with Lady Jane and her mother
on the train, of the gift of “Tony,” the blue heron, and of the
separation at Gretna.

“Oh, Arthur, why—_why_ didn’t you go with them and bring them to me?
She was a stranger, and she didn’t know the way, and your being our
friend and all.”

“My dear Mrs. Lanier, she never mentioned your name or number. How
could I guess you were the friend to whom she was going? and I didn’t
want to seem presuming.”

“But where did she go? She never came here!”

“Wait till I tell you the rest, and then we will discuss that. I stood
on the platform until the train started, and watched them walking
toward the ferry, the mother very feebly, and the child skipping along
with the little basket, delighted with her new possession; then I went
back to my seat, angry enough at myself because I wasn’t with them,
when what should I see on the floor, under their seat, but a book they
had left. I have it now, and I’ll bring it to you to-morrow; inside of
the book was a photograph—a duplicate of this, and on the fly-leaf was
written ‘Jane Chetwynd.’”

“I thought so! I knew it was Jane!” exclaimed Mrs. Lanier excitedly.
“But she never came here. Where could she have gone?”

“That’s the mystery. She may have changed her mind and gone to a
hotel, or something may have happened to her. I don’t know. I don’t
like to think of it! However, the next day I advertised the book, and
advertised it for a week; but it was never claimed, and from that day
to this I’ve never been able to discover either the mother or the
child.”

“How strange, how very strange!” said Mrs. Lanier, greatly troubled.
“Why should she have changed her mind so suddenly? If she started to
come to me, why didn’t she come?”

“The only reasonable solution to the problem is that she changed her
mind and went on to New York by the night-train. She evidently did not
go to a hotel, for I have looked over all the hotel registers of that
time, and her name does not appear on any of them. So far there is
nothing very mysterious; she might have taken the night-train.”

“Oh, Arthur, she probably did. Why do you say she _might_ have?”

“Because you see I have a sequel to my story. You had a sequel to
yours, a sequel of a box. Mine is a sequel of a bird—the blue heron
I gave the little Lady Jane. _I bought that same blue heron from a
bird-fancier on Charter Street this very morning_.”

“How can you be sure that it is the same bird, Arthur? How can you be
sure?”

“Because it was marked in a peculiar way. It had three distinct black
crosses on one wing. I knew the rogue as soon as I saw him, although
he has grown twice the size, and—would you believe it?—he has the same
leather band on his leg that I sewed on more than two years ago.”

“And you found out where the fancier bought him?” asked Mrs. Lanier
breathlessly.

“Of course I asked, the first thing, and all the information I could
get from the merchant was that he bought him from an Italian a few days
before, who was very anxious to sell him. When I called the bird by his
name, Tony, he recognized it instantly. So you see that he has always
been called by that name.”

“The child must have lost him, or he must have been stolen. Then the
box, the jewel-box here too. Good heavens! Arthur, what can it mean?”

“It means that Mrs. Churchill never left New Orleans,” said Arthur
decidedly.

“My dear Arthur, you alarm me!” cried Mrs. Lanier; “there is something
dreadful behind all this. Go on, and tell me everything you know.”

“Well, after I bought the bird, and while I was writing my address for
the man to send him home, a funny little old Frenchman came in, and
suddenly pounced on Tony, and began to jabber in the most absurd way. I
thought he was crazy at first; but after a while I made him understand
that the heron belonged to me; and when I had calmed him down somewhat
I gathered from his remarks that this identical blue heron had been
the property of ’one leetle lady’ who formerly lived on Good Children
Street.”

“Good Children Street,” interrupted Mrs. Lanier; “what a remarkable
coincidence!”

“That the bird had been lost, and that he had searched everywhere to
find it for the ‘leetle lady.’ Then I asked him for a description of
the ‘leetle lady.’ And, as I live, Mrs. Lanier, he described that child
to the life,”—and Arthur Maynard pointed to the photograph as he spoke.

“Oh, Arthur, can it be that Jane Chetwynd is _dead_? What else can it
mean? Where is the child? I must see her. Will you go with me to Good
Children Street early to-morrow?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Lanier. But she is not there; the old man told me a
long story of a Madame Jozain, who ran away with the child.”

“Madame Jozain!” cried Mrs. Lanier excitedly—“the same woman who had
the jewel-box.”

“Evidently the same, and we are on her track—or we should be, if she
were alive; but unfortunately she’s dead. The little Frenchman says so,
and the child is now in Margaret’s Orphans’ Home.”

“Oh, I see it all now! It is as clear as day to me!” cried Mrs. Lanier,
springing from her chair and walking excitedly back and forth. “It is
all explained—the mysterious attraction I felt for that child from the
first. Her eyes, her voice, her smile are Jane Chetwynd’s. Arthur,
would you know her again if you saw her?”

“Certainly; she hasn’t grown out of my recollection in two years,
though of course she may not resemble the photograph so much. You see
it is four or five years since that was taken; but she can’t have
changed in two years so that I won’t know her, and I’m very sure also
that she’ll remember me.”

“Well, come to-morrow at eleven, and I think I can have her here. The
lovely child in Margaret’s Home, in whom I have felt such an interest,
must be the one. Her name is Jane. I will write to Margaret at once to
bring her here to-morrow morning, and, Arthur, if you can identify her
she is Jane Chetwynd’s child without a doubt;—but Jane—poor Jane! What
_has_ happened to her? It is a mystery, and I shall never rest until it
is explained.”

“And perhaps you will hate me for my stupidity,” replied Arthur,
looking very much cast down, as he shook hands and said good-night.

“No, no, my dear boy. You were not in the least to blame, and perhaps
your generosity in giving Lady Jane the blue heron may be the means of
restoring her to her friends.”

Thinking the matter over from Mrs. Lanier’s point of view, Arthur went
away somewhat comforted, but still very anxious about the developments
the next day might bring forth.




CHAPTER XXXI

LADY JANE COMES TO HER OWN


The next morning, when Margaret brought little Jane, Mrs. Lanier sent
for them to come to her room, and there she heard the strange story
that Paichoux had told Margaret.

Putting together one thing and another, the incidents seemed to form
a chain of which there was only one link missing, and that was an
explanation of the mystery surrounding the fate of the young mother.
What had become of her? And how had Madame Jozain got possession of the
child, as well as of the property?

“It is work for a skilful detective,” said Mrs. Lanier, when Margaret
had told her of Paichoux’s plan.

And Margaret replied that, with the aid of a little money, the snarl
could soon be unraveled.

“The money will be forthcoming,” returned Mrs. Lanier. “It shall be my
sacred duty to begin an investigation as soon as the child’s identity
is established. Mr. Lanier will interest himself with me, and every
possible effort shall be made to get at the bottom of the mystery.
Meanwhile, my good Margaret, you must leave little Jane with me. Jane
Chetwynd’s child must not be dependent on charity.”

To this Margaret readily agreed, and then Lady Jane was called from the
nursery, where she had been with Mrs. Lanier’s little girls during this
long serious conversation.

The child came in dressed in her homely orphan’s garb, with all her
beautiful hair braided and hanging stiffly down her back; but she
was lovely in spite of her unlovely attire, her sweet little face
was dimpled with smiles, and her wide eyes were full of pleasant
expectation.

“Come here, my dear,” said Mrs. Lanier, holding out her hands. “Now
tell me, which name do you like best, Lady Jane, or simply Jane?”

She hesitated a moment and looked wistfully at Margaret, while a slight
shadow passed over her face. “_I_ like Lady Jane; but Mother Margaret
likes Jane best.”

Then Mrs. Lanier opened a drawer and took out a photograph in a velvet
frame. “My dear,” she said, holding it before her, “who are these?”

In an instant the child’s face changed; every vestige of color fled
from it, as she fixed her eyes on the picture with a look of eager
affection and pitiful surprise. “It’s papa and mama!” she exclaimed
passionately. “It’s my dear, dear mama!” Then, with a cry of distress,
she threw herself into Margaret’s arms and sobbed bitterly.

“This is proof enough for me,” said Mrs. Lanier, as she laid the
picture away; “the recognition was instantaneous and complete. She is
Jane Chetwynd’s child. Margaret, leave her to me; I will love her and
comfort her.”

An hour after Mrs. Lanier was sitting in her library, writing hastily
and excitedly, when the doorbell rang, and, just as she was addressing
a letter to “Richard Chetwynd,” Arthur Maynard entered.

The boy looked quite pale and anxious, as he glanced at Mrs. Lanier’s
flushed, excited face.

“Don’t ask me any questions; just wait a moment,” she said, with a
reassuring smile.

Presently there was a sound of children’s voices on the stairs, and
three little girls entered the room quietly and demurely. They were
dressed exactly alike in dainty white frocks and broad sashes; two
were pale and dark; they were Ethel and May Lanier; and one was fair
and rosy, with wonderful golden hair hanging in burnished, waving
masses below her waist, while the thick fringe across her forehead,
although it looked a little refractory, as though it had just been cut,
gave her a charmingly infantile and picturesque appearance.

The moment the little Laniers saw Arthur Maynard they ran to him
talking, and laughing gaily, while Lady Jane,—for it was she, quite
metamorphosed through the skill of Mrs. Lanier’s French maid, and one
of Ethel’s dainty suits,—remained standing shyly in the center of the
room.

Mrs. Lanier was watching her sweet little face with its puzzled,
anxious expression. She held her hands tightly clasped, and her soft
brows were slightly contracted, while she looked at the merry group
with large, serious eyes. Presently a winsome smile broke over her
face, and going slowly forward she said softly: “If you please, aren’t
you the boy who gave me the blue heron?”

Arthur Maynard was quite beside himself with delight. Holding out both
hands, he drew her to him, and putting his arm about her caressingly
he said gaily: “Yes, Lady Jane, I’m the very boy. And so you remember
me? I thought you’d forgotten me long ago.”

“Oh, no, no, I hadn’t; but,” with a little, tremulous smile, “you—you
didn’t know me, did you?”

“Yes, you darling, I did; I was only waiting to see if you really
remembered me.”

“Oh, but you didn’t know I saw you once before.”

“No, indeed. When and where was it?” asked Arthur eagerly.

“It was a long while ago. It was Mardi-gras, and I was lost; but you
couldn’t see me, because I had on a domino,” replied Lady Jane, with
dancing eyes and roguish little smile. “I called you, and you heard me,
because you looked around; but you couldn’t see me.”

“Well, I declare! Now I remember! Of course, I couldn’t guess that the
little pink crumpled thing was Lady Jane. Why didn’t you call me again?”

“Oh,” with a little sigh. “I thought maybe you didn’t remember me.”

“As if I could ever forget; but where is Tony? have you given him
away?” and he looked into her eyes with a smile.

“No, I didn’t give him away. I love him too much to give him to any
one; but he’s lost. He broke his string, while I was out singing, and
Tante Pauline was too lame to catch him, and I searched and looked
everywhere for him, and then I couldn’t sing any more—and—” and here
she paused, flushing deeply while the tears gathered on her lashes.

“She’s just the same adorable little creature,” whispered Arthur to
Mrs. Lanier, while he stroked her hair softly. Then he bent over her
and asked her very earnestly and gravely:

“Do you remember that day on the cars, Lady Jane, when I gave you Tony?”

“Why, yes,—or I wouldn’t know you,” she replied ingenuously.

“Well, your mama was with you then. Where is she now?”

“Oh,” with a very sad sigh, “I don’t know; she’s gone away. I thought
she’d come back, and I waited and waited; but now I don’t look any
more. I think she’s with papa, and isn’t coming back.”

“When did she go? My darling, try to remember about your mama,” urged
Mrs. Lanier gently.

“It was so long ago, I can’t tell when it was,” she said dejectedly. “I
was ill, and when I got well Tante Pauline said she had gone.”

“Was it in Good Children Street that she went?”

“No. It was before. It was away across the river, because Tante
Pauline, and Mr. Raste, and I, and Tony in his basket, all came in a
big boat.”

“You see Jane Chetwynd never left Gretna,” said Mrs. Lanier in an
awe-struck voice.

“Where is Tante Pauline now?” continued Arthur.

“I don’t know. I ran away, and I haven’t seen her for ever so long.”

“Why did you run away from her? Didn’t you love her?”

“No, no! Please don’t ask me,—please don’t,” and suddenly she covered
her little flushed, troubled face with both hands and began to cry
silently.

“We mustn’t question her any more, Arthur,” said Mrs. Lanier softly, as
she soothed the child. “Her little heart has been probed to the very
depths. She is a noble little soul, and she won’t utter a complaint
against that wretched woman.”

“Never mind, my darling; forget all about Tante Pauline. You will never
see her again, and no one shall make you unhappy. You are my child
now, and you shall stay with me always, and to-morrow we are going to
buy Christmas presents for all your friends in Good Children Street.”

“And I”—whispered Arthur, pressing his cheek close against her golden
head—“I have a Christmas present for you; so wipe away your tears, and
prepare to be very happy.”

“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.




CHAPTER XXXII

A MERRY CHRISTMAS


It was Christmas evening, and Mrs. Lanier’s beautiful house was bright
with lights and flowers, and merry with music and laughter.

There were, besides the little Laniers and Lady Jane, a dozen children
or more, who had been invited to see the wonderful Christmas-tree,
which Mr. and Mrs. Lanier and Arthur Maynard had spent a good part of
the day in decorating. It stood at one end of the drawing-room, and its
broad branches were fairly bending beneath the treasures heaped upon
them. It glowed and sparkled with the light of a hundred wax candles,
reflected over and over by innumerable brilliant objects until it
seemed like Moses’s burning bush, all fire and flame; and amid this
radiant mass of color and light were the most beautiful gifts for every
member of the family, as well as for the happy little visitors. But
the object which attracted the most curiosity and interest was a large
basket standing at the foot of the tree.

“Whom is that basket for, papa?” asked Ethel Lanier of her father, who
was unfastening and distributing the presents.

“We shall see presently, my dear,” replied Mr. Lanier, glancing at
Lady Jane, who stood, a radiant little figure, beside Arthur Maynard,
watching every movement with sparkling eyes and dimpling smiles.

At last, with a great deal of difficulty, the basket was untied, and
Mr. Lanier read in a loud, distinct voice from a card attached to it,
“For Lady Jane Churchill. With Arthur Maynard’s love and good wishes.”

“There, I thought it was for Lady Jane,” cried Ethel delightedly. “I
know it’s something lovely.”

Mr. Lanier, with no little ceremony, handed the basket to Arthur, who
took it and gave it to Lady Jane with a low bow.

“I hope you will like my present,” he said, smiling brightly, while he
helped the wondering child untie the strings that fastened the cover.

Her little face was a study of mingled curiosity and expectancy, and
her eyes sparkled with eagerness as she bent over the basket.

[Illustration: “OH, OH! IT’S TONY!” CRIED LADY JANE]

“It’s so large. What can it be? Oh, oh! It’s Tony!” she cried, as the
cover was lifted, and the bird hopped gravely out and stood on one
leg, winking and blinking in the dazzling light. “It’s Tony! dear, dear
Tony!” and in an instant she was on her knees hugging and kissing the
bird passionately.

“I told you I would find him for you,” whispered Arthur, bending over
her, almost as happy as she.

“And you knew him by the three little crosses, didn’t you? Oh, you’re
so good, and I thank you so much,” she said, lifting her lovely,
grateful eyes to the boy’s face. She was smiling, but a tear glistened
on her lashes.

“What a darling she is!” said Mrs. Lanier fondly. “Isn’t it pretty to
see her with the bird? Really it is an exquisite picture.”

She was like an anxious mother over a child that had just been restored
to her. “You know me, Tony, don’t you? and you’re glad to see me?” she
asked, over and over, while she stroked his feathers and caressed him
in the tenderest way.

“Do you think he remembers you, Lady Jane?” asked Mr. Lanier, who was
watching her with a smile of amusement.

“Oh yes, I know he does; Tony couldn’t forget me. I’m sure he’ll come
to me if I call him.”

“Please try him. Oh, do try him!” cried Ethel and May.

Mr. Lanier took the bird and placed him behind a chair at the extreme
end of the room, where he stood gravely blinking and nodding, but the
moment he heard Lady Jane’s little chirp, and “Tony, Tony,” he ran
fluttering to her and nestled close against her.

Every one was pleased with this exhibition of the bird’s intelligence,
and the children were quite wild over the new acquisition. The other
presents were forgotten for the moment, and they could do nothing but
watch every movement with admiration and wonder.

To Lady Jane the recovery of her lost treasure was the crowning point
of happiness, and she consented reluctantly to leave him alone in the
conservatory, where he was to spend the night, and where he looked very
comfortable, as well as picturesque, standing on one leg under a large
palm.

“Doesn’t she dance like a little fairy!” said Arthur admiringly to Mrs.
Lanier, as they stood, a little later, watching the children dancing.

“Yes, she is very graceful and altogether charming,” replied Mrs.
Lanier. “It is delightful to see her so happy after all she has
suffered.”

“I don’t imagine she will care half as much for her rich grandfather
as she does for Tony,” returned Arthur. “You see she’s acquainted with
Tony, and she isn’t acquainted with her grandfather. I hope he’ll be
decent to her,” he added anxiously.

“It is almost time for him to be here,” said Mrs. Lanier, glancing
at the clock. “Mr. Lanier will meet him at the station and bring him
here, if he will accept our hospitality. I’ll confess I’m filled with
consternation. He used to be such a stern, cold man; he never even
softened to Jane’s young friends; he was polite and kind, but never
genial, and I dare say he has quite forgotten me. It’s a trial for me
to meet him with this awful mystery hanging over Jane’s last days. Oh,
I hope he will take kindly to the child! He idolized her mother before
she thwarted his plans, and now I should think his remorse would be
terrible, and that he would do everything to atone for his unkindness.”

“I have faith in Lady Jane,” laughed Arthur. “It must be a hard heart
to withstand her winning ways. I’ll wager before a week that the old
millionaire will be her devoted slave.”

Just at that moment a servant entered, and handed Mrs. Lanier a card.
“It is Mr. Chetwynd,” she said to Arthur. “They have come; he is in the
library, and Mr. Lanier asks me to bring the child.”

A few moments later, Mrs. Lanier led Lady Jane into the room where
Richard Chetwynd waited to receive her. He was a tall, pale man, with
deep, piercing eyes, and firmly closed lips, which gave character to
a face that did not lack kindliness of expression. As she advanced a
little constrainedly, holding the child by the hand, he came forward to
meet her with an air of friendly interest.

“Perhaps you have forgotten me, Mrs. Lanier,” he said, cordially
extending his hand, “but I remember you, although it is some time ago
that you used to dine with my daughter in Gramercy Park.”

“Oh, no, I have not forgotten you, Mr. Chetwynd; but I hardly expected
you to recall me among all Jane’s young friends.”

“I do. I do perfectly,” he replied, with his eyes fixed on Lady Jane,
who clung to Mrs. Lanier and looked at the tall, grave stranger with
timid scrutiny.

Then he held out his hand to the child. “And this is Jane Chetwynd’s
daughter. There is no doubt of it. She is the image of her mother,”
he said in a low, restrained voice. “I was not prepared to see such a
living proof. She is my little Jane as she was when a child—my little
Jane—my darling! Mrs. Lanier, will you excuse me!—the sight of her has
quite unnerved me”; and suddenly sinking into a chair he pressed the
child to his heart and hid his face on her bright golden head.

What passed between Lady Jane and her grandfather, Mr. and Mrs. Lanier
never knew, for they slipped quietly out of the room, and left the
cold, stern man alone with the last of his family—the child of that
idolized but disobedient daughter, who had caused him untold sorrow,
and whom he had never forgiven until that moment, when he held in his
arms, close to his heart, the child, her living image.

It was some time before Mr. Chetwynd appeared, and when he did he was
as cold and self-possessed as if he had never felt a throb of emotion,
or shed a tear of sorrow on the pretty head of the child, who held his
hand, and prattled as freely and confidingly as though she had known
him always.

“What will Mother Margaret say,” she exclaimed, looking at Mrs. Lanier
with wide, glistening eyes, “when I tell her that I’ve found Tony and
my grandpapa both in one Christmas? I never saw a grandpapa before.
Pepsie read to me about one in a book, and he was very cross; but this
one isn’t. I think he’s very good, because he says that he will give me
everything I wish, and I know I shall love him a great deal.”

“Now, Lady Jane, confess to me, and I’ll never tell,” whispered Arthur
with an air of great secrecy. “Which do you love best, Tony or your new
grandpapa?”

She raised her clear eyes to the roguish face of the boy with a little
perplexed smile, and then replied unhesitatingly: “Well, I’ve known
Tony longer, but I think I’ll love my grandpapa as well by and by,
because, you know, he’s my grandpapa.”

Arthur laughed heartily at the clever way in which she evaded the
question, and remarked to Mrs. Lanier that Lady Jane would wind her
grandfather around her little finger before a month was over. Which
prediction was likely to prove true, for Mr. Chetwynd did not seem to
have any other interest in life than to gratify every wish the child
expressed.

“She has taken complete possession of me,” he said to Mrs. Lanier,
“and now my greatest happiness will be to make her happy. She is all I
have, and I shall try to find in her the comfort her mother deprived
me of.”

In spite of his affection for the child, his feelings did not soften
toward the mother; he could not forget that she had disappointed him
and preferred a stranger to him; that she had given up wealth and
position to bury herself in obscurity with a man he hated. It was a
bitter thought, yet he would spare no pains to solve the mystery that
hung over her last days.

Money and influence together soon put the machinery of the law in
motion; therefore it was not a month after Mr. Chetwynd’s arrival in
New Orleans before everything was as clear as day. The young widow was
traced to Madame Jozain’s; there were many who remembered her death
and funeral. The physician’s certificate at the Board of Health bore
the name of Dr. Debrot, who was found, and interviewed during one of
his lucid moments; he described the young mother and child, and even
remembered the blue heron; and his testimony, sad though it was, was
still a comfort to Jane Chetwynd’s friends. She had died of the same
fever that killed her husband, and she had been carefully nursed and
decently buried. Afterward, the Bergeron tomb was opened, the remains
identified, and then sent to New York to rest with her mother, in the
stately Chetwynd tomb, in Greenwood cemetery.

Then a careful search was made for her personal effects, but nothing
was recovered except the watch that Paichoux was fortunate enough to
secure. Mr. Chetwynd handed Paichoux a large check in exchange for it,
but the honest man refused to take any more than he had paid Raste
Jozain in order to get possession of it. However, the millionaire
proved that he was not ungrateful nor lacking in appreciation, when he
presented him with a rich, plain watch suitably inscribed, from the
donor to a most worthy friend. And when the pretty Marie was married,
she received from the same jeweler who made the watch an exquisite
silver tea-service, which was the pride of her life, and which was
cherished not only for its value, but because it was a gift from Lady
Jane’s grandpapa.

Mr. Chetwynd made a number of visits to Good Children Street in
company with Mrs. Lanier and Lady Jane, and there were a great many
long conversations between Mam’selle Diane, the millionaire, and
the banker’s wife, while Lady Jane played with her jolly little
friend, the canary, among the branches of the rose-bush. During
these conversations there was a great deal of argument and anxious
urging on the part of the visitors, and a great many excuses and much
self-depreciation on the part of the gentle, faded lady.

“I have been buried so long,” she would say pathetically, “that the
great world will appal and confuse me. I shall be like a blind person
suddenly made sensible of the light.”

“But you will soon become accustomed to the light,” urged Mrs. Lanier.

“And I might long for seclusion again; at my age one cannot easily
change one’s habits.”

“You shall have all the seclusion you wish for,” said Mr. Chetwynd
kindly.

“Besides I am so old-fashioned,” murmured Mam’selle Diane, blushing
deeply.

“A quality which I greatly admire,” returned Mr. Chetwynd, with a
courtly bow.

“And think how Lady Jane loves you,” said Mrs. Lanier, as if to clinch
the argument.

“Yes; my love for her and hers for me are the strongest points in the
situation,” replied Mam’selle Diane reflectively; “when I think of that
I can hardly refuse to comply with your wishes.”

At that time it seem as if Lady Jane acted the part of fairy godmother
to those who had been her friends in her days of adversity; for each
one had only to express a wish and it was gratified.

Pepsie’s cottage in the country was about to become a reality. In
one of the charming shady lanes of Carrollton they found just such a
bowery little spot as the girl wished for, with a fine strip of land
for a garden. One day Mr. Chetwynd and Lady Jane went down to Good
Children Street and gave the deed of it to Mademoiselle Madelon Modeste
Ferri, which was Pepsie’s baptismal name, although she had never been
called by it in all her life. The little cripple was so astonished
and delighted that she could find no words of thanks; but after a few
moments of very expressive silence she exclaimed: “After all, my cards
were right, for they told me over and over that I should go to live in
the country; and now I’m going, thanks to Lady Jane.”

When little Gex was asked what he most wished for in the world, he
hesitated for a long time, and finally confessed that the desire of his
life was to go back to Paris.

“Well, you shall go, Mr. Gex,” said Lady Jane confidently, “and I shall
see you there, because I’m going to Paris with grandpapa very soon.”

It is needless to say that Gex went, and the little shop in Good
Children Street saw him no more forever.

And Margaret—the good Margaret. What could Lady Jane do for her? Only
the noble woman and the destitute orphans could testify to the generous
aid that came yearly in the shape of a check for a large amount from
Lady Jane for dear Mother Margaret’s home.

“And Mam’selle Diane,—dear Mam’selle! what can I give her?” asked Lady
Jane eagerly.

“We have our plans for Mam’selle Diane, my dear,” said Mrs. Lanier.
“There is only one thing to do for her, and that is to take her with
you. Your grandpapa has begged her to take charge of your education.
Poor, lonely woman; she loves you dearly, and in spite of her
reluctance to leave her seclusion, I think she would go to the world’s
end with you.”

And so it was arranged that when Mr. Chetwynd and Lady Jane left New
Orleans, Mam’selle Diane d’Hautreve went with them, and the little
house and tiny garden were left to solitude, while the jolly canary was
sent to keep Tony company in Mrs. Lanier’s conservatory.




CHAPTER XXXIII

AS IT IS NOW


All this happened years ago, some ten or twelve, more or less, and
there have been many changes in that time.

In front of the iron railing where Lady Jane clung on that cold
Christmas eve, peering into the warmth and light of the Orphans’
Home, there is now a beautiful little park, with magnolias, oaks,
fragrant white jasmine, and pink flowering crape-myrtle. The grass
is green, and the trees make shadows on the pretty little pond, the
tiled bridge and shelled walks, the cactus and palmetto. Flowers bloom
there luxuriantly, the birds sing merrily, and it is a spot beloved of
children. Always their joyous laugh can be heard mingled with the songs
of birds and the distant hum of many little voices in the Orphans’ Home
a few paces away.

In the center of that square on a green mound, bordered with flowers,
stands a marble pedestal, and on that pedestal is a statue. It is the
figure of a woman, seated and holding a little orphan to her heart.
The woman has a plain, homely face, the thin hair is combed back
austerely from the broad forehead, the eyes are deep-set, the features
coarse, the mouth wide. She is no high-born dame of delicate mold, but
a woman of the people—untaught, honest, simple, industrious. Her plain
gown falls around her in scanty lines; over her shoulders is modestly
folded a little shawl; her hands, that caress the orphan at her side,
are large and rough with honest toil; but her face, and her whole plain
figure, is beautiful with purity and goodness. It is Margaret, the
orphans’ friend, who, though a destitute orphan herself, by her own
virtue and industry earned the wealth to found homes and asylums, to
feed and clothe the indigent, to save the wretched and forsaken, and to
merit the title of Mother to the Motherless.

And there sits her marble image, through summer’s heat and winter’s
cold, serene and gentle, under the shadow of the home she founded, and
in sound of the little voices that she loved so well; and there she
will sit when those voices are silent and those active little forms are
dust, as a monument of honest, simple virtue and charity, as well as
an enduring testimony to the nobility of the women who erected this
statue in respectful recognition of true greatness under the homely
guise of honest toil.

If one of my young readers should happen near this spot just at the
right moment on some fine evening in early spring, he or she might
chance to notice an elegant carriage drawn by two fine horses, and
driven by a sleek darky in plain livery, make the circuit of the place
and then draw up near the statue of Margaret, while its occupants, an
elderly woman of gentle and distinguished appearance, and a beautiful
young girl, study the homely, serene face of the orphans’ friend.

Presently the girl says reverently, “Dear Mother Margaret! She was a
saint, if earth ever knew one.”

“Yes; she was a noble woman, and she came from the poor and lowly.
My dear, she is an example of a great truth, which may be worthy of
consideration. It is, that virtue and purity do not disdain to dwell in
the meanest shrine, and that all the titles and wealth of earth could
not ennoble her as her own saintly character has done.”

The occupants of the carriage are Lady Jane and Mam’selle Diane
d’Hautreve.

The beautiful child is now a beautiful girl of seventeen. Her education
is finished, and she has not disappointed the expectations of her
friends. At home and abroad she is not only known as the Chetwynd
heiress, but also for her many accomplishments, as well as for her
beauty and charitableness. And her wonderful voice, which time has
enriched and strengthened, is a constant delight to those who hear
it, although it is never heard in public, save in the service of God,
or for some work of charity. The poor and the lowly, the sick and
the dying have often been carried to the very gates of heaven on its
melodious strains, and the good sisters and grateful little orphans in
Margaret’s Home count it a day long to be remembered when Lady Jane
sits down among them and sings some of the hymns that she loved so well
in those old days when she herself was a homeless little orphan.

Mr. Chetwynd still likes to spend part of the year in Paris; but he has
purchased a beautiful winter home in one of the lovely streets in the
garden district, not far from Mrs. Lanier, and Lady Jane and Mam’selle
Diane spend several months every spring in its delightful seclusion.

And here Madelon comes to bring her delicious cakes, which she now
sells to private customers instead of having a stand on the Rue
Bourbon; and Tante Modeste often rattles up in her milk cart, a little
older, a little stouter, but with the same bright face; and on the same
seat where Lady Jane used to sit is one of Marie’s little ones, instead
of one of her own. “Only think, my dear,” she says proudly, “Tiburce
has graduated, and now he is studying law with Marie’s husband, who is
rising fast in his profession.”

But among all her happy hours there are none pleasanter than those
she spends with Pepsie in the pretty cottage at Carrollton, when the
bright-faced little cripple, who seems hardly a day older, spreads out
her beautiful needlework and expatiates eloquently on the fine results
she obtains from the Paris patterns and exquisite material with which
she is constantly supplied. She is a natural little artist with the
needle, her dainty work sells readily and profitably, and she is in a
fair way to become rich. “Just think,” she says with one of her broad
smiles, “I could buy a piano now myself, if I wanted to, and perhaps I
shall, so that you can play to me when you come.”

During sunny mornings, on a certain lawn in the garden district, there
is nearly always a merry party playing tennis, while a gentle-faced
woman sits near holding a book, which she seldom reads, so interested
is she in watching a golden-haired girl and a handsome young man,
who frequently interrupt the game to point out the grave antics of a
stately blue heron, that stalks majestically about the lawn or poses
picturesquely on one leg under a glossy palm.

But we must not approach the border-land of romance. Lady Jane is no
longer a child, and Arthur Maynard is years older than the boy who gave
her the blue heron.


THE END




  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 14 Changed: if you thing it’s right
             to: if you think it’s right

  pg 133 Changed: LADY JANE FINDS A MUSIC-TEACHFR
              to: LADY JANE FINDS A MUSIC-TEACHER

  pg 152 Changed: You didn’t wear a handkerchef over your ears
              to: You didn’t wear a handkerchief over your ears

  pg 168 Changed: annoyed at Pespie’s air of secrecy
              to: annoyed at Pepsie’s air of secrecy