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. He said to himself that she had only made him think of love again--love that had grown a stranger to his heart, though once as sweet and welcome as the song she sang. She rested a few moments, without observing her rapt listeners, then the sweet voice rose again, following the chords of the mandolin: “Beneath the trees together They wandered hand in hand, Oh, it was summer weather, And Love was in the land; Their hearts were light, The sun shone bright, And as they went along, With voices sweetly mingled, They sang the old, old song: “Love, I will love you ever, Love, I will leave you never, Ever to me precious to be. Never to part, heart bound to heart! Ever am I, never to say good-by! “Beneath the trees together They went along apart, Oh, it was autumn weather, And heart had turned from heart, Across the wold the air came cold, The mists rose dull and gray, And in their ears, like a mocking voice, They heard the well-known lay: “Yet still while o’er the heather They go their way alone, Oh, it is wintry weather, And all the summer’s gone! They hear the air they love the most Upon their fancy fall; ’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. “So like, so like, she might be Jessie Lyndon’s sister,” he mused. “But no, that could not be. Mrs. Dalrymple had but one daughter. It is only a chance likeness.”