The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. I must leave England to-night. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. “Don’t bunch too much as you come out,” she added. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. She was a little paler than when she had come to London, a little paler and a little thinner. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. Later, when they returned home, she would serve as the topic of many conversations.
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