Once the sleeping man turned with a low, deep sigh of comfort, as in relief from pain. Waifs dark eyes gleamed on him with glances of unspeakable tenderness and admiration. How noble he looked lying there in his wounds, like a dead prince. How graceful was the recumbent form; how luxuriant the dark brown hair escaped from its black riband to wander over the pillow; how white and shapely the strong hand opened loosely on the coverlet. This, then, was what they called a gentleman. She had seen gentlemen in the streets, or when they came to consult the Patron, but never under such favourable conditions for examination as now. What was _she_ in comparison? She, the drudge of a charlatan, half-quack, half-conjuror? How could there be anything in common between them? She stirred uneasily in her chair, rose, crept to the bedside, and laid her slim, dusky hand by the side of his. Waif's hands, in spite of hard work and hard weather, were beautiful with the beauty of her race; long, lithe, and delicate; the slender fingers and filbert-shaped nails concealed a vigour of grasp and tenacity denied to the broad coarse fist of many a powerful man. She smiled as she compared them with those of the sleeping patient; and her smile grew brighter while she reflected that she was herself the superior in those advantages of birth she so esteemed in him. Yes, the oldest blood in England seemed a mere puddle compared with hers. Where was the English gentleman who could trace his pedigree back for a hundred generations without break or blemish, to ancestors who had served the Pharaohs and set taskwork for the Jews, who even in that remote time boasted themselves lineal descendants of an illustrious line that was only lost with every other record of history in the dim obscurity of the Past. All this Waif had learned beneath the stars, on Bagshot Heath or Barnes Common, sitting over the camp-fires in the steam of the camp-kettles, filled with spoils from neighbouring hen-roosts, stolen by the high-born patriarchs and princes of her tribe. But she was a good nurse, notwithstanding her royal descent and barbarian bringing-up. Twenty times during the night she smoothed her patient's pillows and straightened his bed-clothes, watching with experienced eye and ear for symptoms of weakness or relapse. Never once did she relax her vigilance, nor so much as relieve her slender, supple form by leaning back in her chair. Unlike most watchers, for _her_ the minutes seemed to fly on golden wings, and when the grey light of dawn began to steal through the shutter, dulling the lamp still burning in that sick chamber, she could have reproached the summer morning for coming so soon.