Directly afterwards Mrs. Lindsay and our heroine entered the room. They were visiting friends in New York, and Jane had induced her mother to call at the house where she had learned her first lessons in civilization. She was very different now from the young Arab of fifteen months since. She was now a young lady in manners, and her handsome dress set off a face which had always been attractive. Neither Mrs. Merton nor Mary dreamed of associating this brilliant young lady with the girl whom they had driven from the house by a false charge.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Lindsay,” said Mrs. Merton, deferentially. “Won’t you and the young lady take seats?”
“You are no doubt surprised to see me,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “but my daughter wished me to call. She was for three months, she tells me, a member of your family.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Merton, in surprise, “I think there must be some mistake. I don’t remember that Miss Lindsay ever boarded with me.”
“Don’t you remember Tom?” asked Jane, looking up, and addressing Mrs. Merton in something of her old tone.
“Good gracious! You don’t mean to say—” ejaculated the landlady, while Mary opened wide her eyes in astonishment and dismay.
“For years,” explained Mrs. Lindsay, “my daughter was lost to me through the cruel schemes of one whom I deemed a faithful friend; but, thank God, she was restored to me within a week after she left your house.”
“Was that the reason of your leaving, Jane?” asked Captain Barnes.
“Mother,” said Jane, cordially grasping the hand of the captain, “this is the kind gentleman who first found me in the street, and provided me with a home.”
“Accept a mother’s gratitude,” said Mrs. Lindsay, simply, but with deep feeling.