_IV.--In After Years_


When Jeannie set out from London on her homeward journey, it was not to
travel on foot, but in the Duke of Argyle's carriage, and the end of the
journey was not Edinburgh, but the isle of Roseneath, in the Firth of
Clyde. When the landing-place was reached, it was in the arms of her
father that Jeannie was received.

It was too wonderful to be believed--but the form was indisputable.
Douce David Deans himself, in his best light-blue Sunday coat, with
broad metal buttons, and waistcoat and breeches of the same.

"Jeannie--my ain Jeannie--my best--my maist dutiful bairn! The Lord of
Israel be thy father, for I am hardly worthy of thee! Thou hast redeemed
our captivity, brought back the honour of our house!"

These words broke from him not without tears, though David was of no
melting mood.

"And Effie--and Effie, dear father?" was Jeannie's eager question.

"You will never see her mair, my bairn," answered Deans, in solemn
tones.

"She is dead! It has come ower late!" exclaimed Jeannie, wringing her
hands.