’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than not have loved at all.”
The sweet voice was inexpressibly pathetic. Laurier felt a lump rise in his throat and a moisture in his eyes. He longed to clasp the singer in his arms and soothe her tender grief.
CHAPTER XXV.
AN ANSWERED PRAYER.
The sweet voice died away in lingering echoes over the waters, the mandolin ceased its plaintive chords, and Jessie sat down with a low sigh by her father’s side, and leaned her head against his shoulder in pathetic silence, while the listeners stole away, leaving Laurier alone in the seat he had taken, gazing absently over the moonlit waters while ocean’s tone seemed to echo over and over:
“Love, I will love you ever,
Love, I will leave you never!”
He had sat down very suddenly because he had staggered from emotion over a shock.
It had come to him all at once why the girl’s face and voice had seemed so familiar that it had awakened subtle pain blent with keenest pleasure.
The fair, exquisite face was like one that had been lying long beneath the coffinlid, the voice was one whose sweet, reproachful tones had once pierced his heart like an avenging sword. She brought back to him the irrevocable past.