The little sinless soul must be happy now, she thinks; but, oh! the agony that is left, the awful sense of loss, loneliness, despair, through which that robbed and paralysed motherhood must wade ... the deep waters ere comfort is reached ... when every sight and sound will bring back the memory of loss, when every child's voice will strike sharp as a knife to the aching heart that holds the echo of but one. Alas, alas! for the desolation of this sad young life, that, clinging but to one joy amidst all the storms and sorrows and weariness around, sees it snatched suddenly from its hold, and looks out on a future blank and desolate as a starless night, where all is shrouded from sight and touch, and every landmark obliterated. Another day comes to replace the wretchedness of this. Lauraine rises white and calm from her bed, and still dry-eyed and tearless, takes up life with its new burden of sorrow. Arrangements, orders, all devolve upon her. No word has come from Sir Francis, but a telegram announces that her mother will be there that night. Lady Etwynde watches her in the deepest distress. This cold, strange, tearless grief is worse than the most frantic sorrow. It seems to chill all sympathy, to harden her, as it were, against all offers of consolation. When Mrs. Douglas arrives it is just the same. Her reception of her mother is almost cold, and, pleading fatigue as an excuse, she retires to her own rooms, leaving Lady Etwynde to do the entertaining. Mrs. Douglas, who dislikes Lady Etwynde, grumbles openly at her daughter's strange behaviour. "So odd, so cold, so unfeeling, as if I could not sympathize with her loss--I, who have lost two children of my own. And to shut herself apart from every one like that, it is positively unnatural." "It has been an awful shock to her," says Lady Etwynde gravely. "Of course, of course; but then, such a baby; and she is young, she will have plenty more. But I never knew any one so changed as Lauraine is since she married. She is not a bit like the same girl." "Marriage does change people, you know," answers Lady Etwynde, looking calmly back at Mrs. Douglas. "And I never thought Lauraine was happy." "Happy! What in heaven's name does she want? She has everything that could satisfy a woman, I am sure, and it was quite a--a love-match." "Indeed!" says Lady Etwynde, arching her delicate eyebrows. "On whose side?" Mrs. Douglas passes by this question loftily. "She is of a cold nature, and utterly different to me. I am sure if she had had to bear all the troubles and worries I have put up with during my life she might talk of unhappiness. Lauraine's unhappiness must be something like a crumpled rose-leaf, I imagine."