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.

“No, Jeannie, she lives in the flesh, and is at freedom from earthly restraint.  But she has left her auld father, that has wept and prayed for her.  She has left her sister, that travailed and toiled for her like a mother.  She has made a moonlight flitting of it.”

“And wi’ that man—­that fearfu’ man?” said Jeannie.

“It is ower truly spoken,” said Deans.  “But never, Jeannie never more let her name be spoken between you and me.”

The next surprise for Jeannie Deans was the appearance of Reuben Butler, who had been appointed by the Duke of Argyle to the kirk of Knocktarlitie, at Roseneath; and within a reasonable time after the new minister had been comfortably settled in his living, the banns were called, and long wooing of Reuben and Jeannie was ended by their union in the holy bands of matrimony.

Effie, married to Robertson, whose real name was Staunton, paid a furtive visit to her sister, and many years later, when her husband was no longer a desperate outlaw, but Sir George Staunton, and beyond anxiety of recognition, the two sisters corresponded freely, and Lady Staunton even came to stay with Mrs. Butler, after old Deans was dead.

A famous woman in society was Lady Staunton, but she was childless, for the child of her shame, carried off by gypsies, she saw no more.

Jeannie and Reuben, happy in each other, in the prosperity of their family, and the love and honour of all by gypsies, she saw no more.

* * * * *

Ivanhoe

“Ivanhoe,” in common with “The Legend of Montrose” and “The Bride of Lammermoor,” was written, or rather dictated to amanuenses, during a period of great physical suffering; “through fits of suffering,” says one of Scott’s biographers, “so great that he could not suppress cries of agony.”  “Ivanhoe” made its appearance towards the end of 1819.  Although the book lacks much of that vivid portraiture that distinguishes Scott’s other novels, the intense vigour of the narrative, and the striking presentation of mediaeval life, more than atone for the former lapse.  From the first, “Ivanhoe” has been singularly successful, and it is, and has been, more popular among English readers than any of the so-called “Scottish novels.”  According to Sir Leslie Stephen, it was Scott’s culminating success in the book-selling sense.

I.—­The Hall of Cedric the Saxon