twelve waving black plumes! Chris's
jaw dropped at the sight of the turbaned, hatted head, the flowers
bobbing and swaying, the ostrich plumes blowing and curtseying with
every slightest movement.

[Illustration]

As if blissfully unaware that her costume was not the usual one for
cooking, the woman hummed and stirred, tasted, and hung up her ladle.
But the sight was too much for Chris. Before he could stop it a shout
of laughter exploded from his lips. He laughed and laughed, and the
indignant expression on the woman's face when she turned, to stand
glaring at him with her hands on her jutting hips, only added to
Chris's laughter. At last, sobering up somewhat as he realized that
his behavior was rude, to put it mildly, Chris stopped and caught his
breath, shaken only now and again by a diminishing paroxysm. Seeing
the spark of bad temper in the red face of the enormous woman, Chris
decided to pour oil on the troubled waters.

"Good morning, ma'am. I--I'm Chris Mason, from upstairs, and I'm sorry
I laughed so loud. I--" he floundered and grabbed desperately at any
passing idea "--I saw something comical out the window there"--he
pointed wildly--"and it just set me off. I hope I didn't disturb you?"

Mollified, though not entirely, the woman accepted this effort at
peacemaking and her face eased a little.

"Well now. So you are awake at the last, eh? And hungry, bein' a boy,
I don't doubt?"

She moved to the dresser and took down a mug and plate, the roses and
ostrich plumes nodding in evident agreement.

"So you are Chris, did you say? Christopher, that would be? And I am
Mistress Rebecca Boozer, should you be wanting to know. Becky Boozer,
they call me."

She bustled over to a covered bowl, dipped out creamy milk with a
long-handled dipper, and set bread, butter, and bacon in front of
Chris at a table pulled up to one of the window seats.

"Eat up now, young man," Becky Boozer advised, every red rose and
feather accenting her words, "for Mr. Wicker will be wanting to see
you when you have done. It's late. Past eight of the clock." She
glanced out the window. "It might be just possible that Master Cilley
will be passing by before long for a midmorning snack and here I am
gossiping with you instead of getting on with my work."

Chris ate with a will, looking around as he chewed. The spotless brick
floor and the starched curtains at the windows, the shining copper
pans hung beside the huge fireplace, were pr