Only take care of the child, keep her from the night air, and don't let her play too hard, and she'll do well enough." So St.Clare said; but he grew nervous and restless.

He watched Eva feverishly day by day, as might be told by the frequency with which he repeated over that "the child was quite well"-- that there wasn't anything in that cough,--it was only some little stomach affection, such as children often had.

But he kept by her more than before, took her oftener to ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt or strengthening mixture,--"not," he said, "that the child _needed_ it, but then it would not do her any harm." If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to his heart than anything else was the daily increasing maturity of the child's mind and feelings.

While still retaining all a child's fanciful graces, yet she often dropped, unconsciously, words of such a reach of thought, and strange unworldly wisdom, that they seemed to be an inspiration.

At such times, St.Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms, as if that fond clasp could save her; and his heart rose up with wild determination to keep her, never to let her go.
The child's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works of love and kindness.