“Oh, think not I can forget you,
I could not though I would,
I see you in all around me
The stream, the night, the wood.
The flowers that slumber so gently,
The stars above the blue,
Oh, heaven itself, my darling,
Is praying, praying, for you!”
Frank Laurier stood apart, looking and listening spellbound, while something sweet and tender to the verge of pain stabbed his heart.
What was there in the pure, uplifted face and in the sweet, sad voice that seemed to strike a mournful chord in memory like some familiar strain? He had never heard the song before, and surely never seen the exquisite face, else it had never been forgotten.