“Yes, I think that’s going to do some good, and we’ve got to trust in Providence, my dear, and wait.”
“Yes, yes. I do pray fervently for help.”
“And you’ve got to rouse yourself up, my dear, and do something to keep from thinking.”
“I can’t—I can’t, dear Mrs Barclay.”
“Oh, yes, you can, my dear. Not for yourself; I want you to help me.”
“Help you?”
“Yes, my dear; help me.”
“I’ll try,” said Claire sadly.
“That’s my pet; I knew you would.”
She embraced Claire tenderly, and then smoothed her hair, as if proud of her.