These words broke from him not without tears, though David was of no melting mood. Archibald had, with delicate attention, withdrawn the spectators from the interview, so that the wood and setting sun alone were witnesses of the expansion of their feelings.
“And Effie?—and Effie, dear father?” was an eager interjectional question which Jeanie repeatedly threw in among her expressions of joyful thankfulness.
“Ye will hear—Ye will hear,” said David hastily, and over and anon renewed his grateful acknowledgments to Heaven for sending Jeanie safe down from the land of prelatic deadness and schismatic heresy; and had delivered her from the dangers of the way, and the lions that were in the path.
“And Effie?” repeated her affectionate sister again and again. “And—and” (fain would she have said Butler, but she modified the direct inquiry)—“and Mr. and Mrs. Saddletree—and Dumbiedikes—and a’ friends?”
“A’ weel—a’ weel, praise to His name!”
“And—Mr. Butler—he wasna weel when I gaed awa?”
“He is quite mended—quite weel,” replied her father.
“Thank God—but O, dear father, Effie?—Effie?”
“You will never see her mair, my bairn,” answered Deans in a solemn tone— “You are the ae and only leaf left now on the auld tree—hale be your portion!”
“She is dead!—She is slain!—It has come ower late!” exclaimed Jeanie, wringing her hands.