"Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. "A little. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. They would suffer amazing hardships to hunt the snow-leopard; but in the Temple of Five Hundred Gods they would not take the trouble to ask the name of one! But this girl, she was alone. “So you’d best open your coffers. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice.
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