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.