As Lily turned, and settled to completer rest, a strand of her hair swept Gerty's cheek with its fragrance.

Everything about her was warm and soft and scented: even the stains of her grief became her as rain-drops do the beaten rose.

But as Gerty lay with arms drawn down her side, in the motionless narrowness of an effigy, she felt a stir of sobs from the breathing warmth beside her, and Lily flung out her hand, groped for her friend's, and held it fast.
"Hold me, Gerty, hold me, or I shall think of things," she moaned; and Gerty silently slipped an arm under her, pillowing her head in its hollow as a mother makes a nest for a tossing child.

In the warm hollow Lily lay still and her breathing grew low and regular.

Her hand still clung to Gerty's as if to ward off evil dreams, but the hold of her fingers relaxed, her head sank deeper into its shelter, and Gerty felt that she slept..