"He said he knew Keith loved me," answers Lauraine wearily. "Fancy hearing one's husband speak of the love of another man! I felt treacherous--shamed in his sight and my own. He could not understand--he would not believe in the long, long struggle, the pain, the suffering of it all. I feel as if conscience and honour had both suffered in the conflict, as if with my child I had lost all that was pure and of any worth in me. And now the world may say what it likes. I don't care even to contradict it." "That is not true," exclaims Lady Etwynde. "You have struggled nobly, you have done your best, and the fruits of the victory will be yours in time. At least you hold the hope of meeting your little child, innocent and unshamed, despite fierce tempting and all the weariness and sorrow of your life." Lauraine's tears fall faster and more fast. "My child! Oh, why was he not left to me? The touch of his innocent kiss, the sound of his voice, the clasp of his arms were strong as all the chains of duty cannot be. And now there is no one--no one. And I am so lonely, so desolate, and life looks so long, and death so far away!" The tears rush to Lady Etwynde's eyes. "Oh, my darling! What can I say to comfort you? Do you know, Lauraine once--in years that are gone--when I felt reckless and despairing as yourself, I left the house, and went out full of some wild resolve too terrible to mention. It was a Sunday evening, I remember well. The bells were sounding everywhere, and I walked on through the quiet streets with madness in my heart. Suddenly, as I passed the open door of a church, I heard a voice singing. Involuntarily I stopped, listened, entered. It was a large church, and full of people. Some one gave me a chair, and I sank down wearily enough. Then, pealing above the chords of the organ, floating up to the great vaulted roof, I heard again the beautiful voice, and it sang these words: 'O rest in the Lord; wait patiently for Him, and He shall give thee thy heart's desire.' You know them, do you not, and the music that weds them so exquisitely from the 'Elijah'? I knelt there with my head bowed on my hands, and the tears falling down my cheeks. I remembered nothing; neither place nor presence. It only seemed as if an angel's voice was breathing comfort to my passion-wrecked soul, as if that beautiful promise fell over my spirit and brought peace, and healing, and rest.' 'Thy heart's desire!' Oh, Lauraine, think of that! Twelve long years ago that message came to me, and I was comforted! Twelve years, and now God _has_ fulfilled His promise. My heart's desire is mine." Lauraine has listened, stilled and awed. "Thy heart's desire." The words sink into her very soul, and wake a thousand varied emotions. "But my 'heart's desire' is all wrong--all sin--whichever way I look at it," she says, half despairingly.