In great alarm she tries to recover her to consciousness, and at last succeeds. With a heavy sigh the dark eyes open, and Lauraine rises and goes back to her low lounge by the window, and there lies faint, white, and exhausted, while, with a great and tender pity, her friend hovers about, speaking soothing words, and asking nothing of the cause of this strange fainting fit. She can guess it well enough. Half an hour passes. Then Lauraine lifts her head with a little languid smile. "You must think me very foolish," she says. "Why should I?" asks Lady Etwynde, simply. "My dear, I think I know what is troubling you. I have known it long. Do not speak of it unless you wish, if it pains you in any way. But be sure of my sympathy always." "I am sure of it," answers Lauraine. "I think I have never made a friend of any woman but you. You are always so good, and one always feels one can trust you. But you are right. Something _is_ troubling me very much. I feel to-night as if life was altogether too hard!" "Who of us does not feel _that_ at some time or other?" says Lady Etwynde, sadly. "A time when to look back or to look forward seems alike equally hard; for during the one we think of what 'might have been,' and during the other we dread to think what _may_ be. There are two very sad things in this life: the waste of love, the dearth of happiness. Both of these are with you now. They were with me once. But I lived through the struggle, and you will do the same. You think it is impossible now. Ah, my dear, so did I; so does every one who suffers. And yet physical force drags us on whether we will or not."