“I wonder,” she said, “how much you care. I have established a fine trade. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. “They might do you good,” she remarked. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. If we were set upon I could not defend you. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. ‘One thing at a time, missie. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.
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