"Never mind, my love.

I'll stop with you half an hour, my pigeon; then perhaps it will be better." And he sat by the bedside, slowly, rhythmically stroking her brows with his finger-tips, stroking her eyes shut, soothing her, holding her fingers in his free hand.

They could hear the sleepers' breathing in the other rooms.
"Now go to bed," she murmured, lying quite still under his fingers and his love.
"Will you sleep ?" he asked.
"Yes, I think so." "You feel better, my Little, don't you ?" "Yes," she said, like a fretful, half-soothed child.
Still the days and the weeks went by.

He hardly ever went to see Clara now.

But he wandered restlessly from one person to another for some help, and there was none anywhere.