"Oh, then, you should try," she said; "try to forget the trouble, and laugh it off. That's always my way when anything bothers me or vexes me. I try to think of something amusing, and forget it."
"And do you always succeed?" I ventured to ask.
"Well, no, not quite always," she said, rather gravely.
It was the first time that I had seen her look grave; her merry, laughing face was clouded for a moment. But it was only for a moment.
"Anyhow," she said, "if you don't quite succeed in forgetting your trouble, it does not make it so hard to bear; it is better to go laughing through a trouble than crying through it. But laugh it off if you can, that's much the best way."
"But, suppose you can't laugh it off," I said; "you owned that there were some troubles which were too deep to be got rid of in this way—suppose you can't laugh it off, and the trouble comes back after every laugh as heavy as ever—what then?"
"Oh, then," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, "we must bear it, I suppose—bear it as best we can. Don't you think so?"
"I never try to laugh trouble away," I said; "I try to pray it away."
"Oh," she said, scornfully, "you believe in prayer, do you?"
"Yes; don't you, Miss Fitzgerald?"