Before the tidings were made known to Lady Clennel, the wounds of her daughter were carefully dressed, the dye that changed the colour of her countenance was removed, and her gipsy garb was exchanged for more seemly apparel.
Clennel anxiously entered the apartment of his lady, to reveal to her the tale of joy; but when he entered, he wist not how to introduce it. He knew that excess of sudden joy was not less dangerous than excess of grief, and his countenance was troubled, though its expression was less sad than it had been for many years.
"Eleanor," he at length began, "cheer up."
"Why, I am not sadder than usual, dear," replied she, in her wonted gentle manner; "and to be more cheerful would ill become one who has endured my sorrows."
"True, true," said he, "but our affliction may not be so severe as we have thought—there may be hope—there may be joy for us yet."
"What mean ye, husband?" inquired she, eagerly; "have ye heard aught—aught of my children?—you have!—you have!—your countenance speaks it."
"Yes, dear Eleanor," returned he, "I have heard of our daughter."
"And she lives?—she lives?—tell me that she lives!"
"Yes, she lives."