No! no!
he has not forgotten me."
One after another of the joyous new years rushed into the world,
passing on to maturity, growing older, and finally passing out,
leaving the gentle, submissive girl, as they had found her, devoting
herself to her father.
Now disease had settled on Mr. Lyle. For years he had been an invalid,
nervous, fretful and impatient. No one but Constance could suit him.
Not even his wife. Her gentle hand, only, could soothe his suffering.
Her soft, loving tones alone would quiet his paroxysm of nervousness.
Time passed on, and Death entered the home of Constance, not to
disturb the long-suffering father, but taking the apparently healthy
mother. Swiftly, quietly, and without suffering, she passed from her
slumbers to the home of her Maker.
This was a terrible trial for the poor girl. She almost sank under it;
but in a little while she rose above her own sorrows. Bowing with
submission to the will of God, she now felt why it was her young hopes
had been blasted. Before, all was dark; now, she saw plainly. She
alone was left to cheer and solace the stricken father. No longer a
single regret lingered in her heart. All was well. A holy calm broke
over her, and she became almost happy, blessed with an approving
conscience.
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