upon their plates and crowded on the
table. Steaming vegetable soup, roast pigeons, roasted ducks, several
boiled fowl with wild rice, a cold beef pie, several kinds of cheese,
tarts and pies, jams and preserves. A blissful silence fell over the
cheerful room and Becky Boozer stood back to survey the two busy boys
and engrossed silent man. Silent if one can call Ned Cilley's champing
jaws, smacking lips, great sighs after a draught of ale, or loud
appreciative belches a silent meal.

When everyone had finished at last and they had pushed back their
chairs and looked about them again with dozy smiles, Chris remembered
Mr. Wicker's request. He rose, not without difficulty.

"Mr. Wicker asked me to see him for a moment." He moved to the
passageway. "That was a superb supper, Becky. I'm stuffed."

Becky looked around genuinely surprised. "Why--a mere mouthful, a
taste, a tidbit, was all any of you had. See--there's a pigeon or two
left, and half a duck, and part of the beef pie--why, you do but peck
at your food, all of you, like poor birds!" she insisted.

Chris laughed. Ned Cilley, picking his teeth with his habitual ship's
nail, was already falling asleep, and Amos, his head on one hand,
propped himself up amid a jumble of empty plates. Peacefulness and
content lay everywhere in the room, warm as the firelight and as
pervasive.

Chris turned. "Anyhow, thanks again. I'll be back," and he went along
to knock at Mr. Wicker's door.

Inside, the ruby damask curtains were drawn close across the windows,
for it was nearly dark, and the fire here too was as red as the rose
that was the joy of a princess of China. Chris closed the door behind
him, looking around with a smile at the familiar walls and objects he
had missed and dreamed of, many a time, the table with its flowers in
a fine China bowl, the desk between the windows with the
long-feathered quill pens and the papers marked by Mr. Wicker's
meticulous hand, the carved cupboard at the end of the room, and the
Indian rug of many colors under his feet. Last of all he brought his
look back to Mr. Wicker, sitting in the winged leather chair.

Mr. Wicker had a strange expression on his face. He was smiling but at
the same time he looked sad. And for the first time Chris saw some
curious-looking garments folded neatly on a stool before the fire. Mr.
Wicker, watching him as he gazed about, saw the question in his eyes.
"Do you not recognise these things, Christopher?" he