"It is too late to attempt deceiving you longer, Constance; yet I would
fain explain----."
"Not now, father. We will pray."
"And you will be happy; or if not, you will not curse him who has
wrought your misery?"
"I have too much need of blessing. Bless, bless you, my father!--Let us
now seek consolation where only it is to be found."
"But may I not speak with Burrell? I want to know----"
"Father! I entreat you, peace. It is now useless; the die is cast--for
me--for us--in this world--useless all, except the aid that, under any
trials, we can ask and receive from Heaven."
"My child, call me your dear father, as you were wont; and let your soft
lips press upon my hand as there were fondness in them. You said you
would not curse me, Constance."
"Bless, bless you, my dear father!" She kissed his hand; and having
lighted the chamber lamp, read one of the penitential psalms of the King
of Israel, when sin, and the wretchedness that follows sin, became too
heavy for him to bear.
"And now let us pray," said Constantia, conceiving that her father's
mind was more composed; "let us offer up petitions to the source of all
mercy and forgiveness."
"I cannot pray," he said; "my lips may move, but my heart is hardened."
"We will learn of Him who softened the stony rock, that the children of
promise might taste of the living waters in a strange land."
And her earnest and beautiful prayer floated to the Almighty's throne,
from that dull and heavy chamber, a record of the faithful and
self-sacrificing spirit whose purest earthly temple is a woman's heart.