ened the
door and peered outside.

His bedroom door was at the top of a narrow curling stair that twisted
away to the left out of sight. It was steep, and Chris stood silent
and intent on the top step, listening. A deep woman's voice loudly
singing, "Farewell and Adieu, to you, Spanish ladies--" came rolling
up the stairwell to the accompaniment of a brisk clatter of pots and
pans. What rose also to Chris's nostrils was a smell of newly baked
bread, frying bacon, and woodsmoke, and the combination put an end to
his indecision. For a while he decided to call a truce to any attempt
at solving the mystery in which he found himself, and following his
nose, went softly down the stairs.

Rounding the last turn of the staircase, Chris remained in its shadow
while he stared with unbelieving eyes at the room and figure before
him. If this is a dream, he said in himself, it's the best one I've
ever had--the very best!

What confronted Chris was Mr. Wicker's kitchen. This room took up
almost all of the side wing of the house. Across from Chris two
casement windows showed the shrubs and flowers and white picket fence
of Mr. Wicker's garden, and at his left was the back door opening onto
Water Street, flanked by two smaller windows. These seemed most
inviting, each possessing a window seat from which one could watch
the busy comings and goings of the docks, with a view of the ships
beyond.

But what drew Chris's eyes and made them grow round with wonder was
the extraordinary figure in front of the fireplace. The vast, deeply
set fireplace was in the wall that faced the back door. So deep it
was, that there was even a bench on one side of it, and over the
smoking logs were hung all manner of trivets, spits, and cooking
irons. It was, in short, a fireplace such as Chris had never dreamed
of. Yet the tall buxom woman stirring the hissing pots and singing to
herself was what held Chris rooted to the last step of the attic
stair.

The woman stood easily six feet, broad and brawny enough to be a match
for almost any man. Countless yards of sprigged cotton must have gone
into the making of her dress, to say nothing of her apron. A massive
fichu of freshly laundered muslin went around her neck and was tucked
into her bodice; a white turban was on her head, but on top of the
turban--! Chris simply could not believe his eyes as he counted
rapidly. On top of this amazing woman's head was a gigantic hat
supporting twenty-four roses and