Dowie put her to bed as she had done when she was a child, feeling as if the days in the nursery had come back again.

She saw gradually die out of the white face the unnatural restraint which she had grieved over.

It had suggested the look of a girl who was not only desolate but afraid and she wondered how long she had worn it and what she had been most afraid of.
In the depths of her comfortable being there lay hidden a maternal pleasure in the nature of her responsibility.

She had cared for young mothers before, and that she should be called to watch over Robin, whose child forlornness she had rescued, filled her heart with a glowing.

As she moved about the room quietly preparing for the comfort of the night she knew that the soft dark of the lost eyes followed her and that it was not quite so lost as it had looked in the church and on their singularly silent journey.
When her work was done and she turned to the bed again Robin's arms were held out to her.
"I want to kiss you, Dowie--I want to kiss you," she said with just the yearning dwelling on the one word, which had so moved the good soul long ago with its innocent suggestion of tender reverence for some sacred rite.
Dowie hurriedly knelt by the bedside.
"Never you be frightened, my lamb--because you're so young and don't know things," she whispered, holding her as if she were a baby.