"And what is to fill this marvelous pie?" asked Rafe, wondering still more. "Tender capon? Rabbits? Venison? Peacocks? What is suitable for a King? I do not know." "Ah, there you show your lack of imagination!" cried the cook. "Master is a great man. This is a poetic pie. It is to be filled with flowers, and on the flowers will be sitting ten beautiful little children, pink and sweet as cherubs, dressed all in wreaths of flowers. And when the pie reaches the King, the top will be opened, and they will all begin to sing a song in honor of Their Majesties. Is it not a pretty thought?" "Well, if the King be not too hungry," said the practical Rafe, doubtfully. "Nonsense!" cried the cook testily. "Would you make out our King to be a cannibal?" "Nay," said Rafe; "that is why I doubt. However, I am here but to assist in this colossal plan. Hand me yon bag of salt." All day long at Roger's kitchen the cooks worked over the King's Pie. At noon came a band of ten mothers, each with a rosy, smiling baby. They placed the children in the great shell to see how they would look. Every one cried: "Charming! Superb! But ah! we must not tell any one, for Roger has paid us well, and the other cooks must not know how he is to win the prize to-morrow!" Weary and unthanked, with his meager day's wage,--a little bag of flour and a pat of butter, sugar, and a handful of salt,--Rafe went home, musing sadly. "A team of white oxen; a hundred sacks of white flour; a hundred pieces of white silver,--what a prize! If only I could earn these, I should be rich, indeed, and able to help my poor neighbors. But Roger will win the prize," he thought. He spread on the table his frugal supper. He had emptied his larder that morning for a sick woman. He had but a few apples and a bowl of cream. It was the first food he had eaten that day, for his brother had forgotten to bid him to his table. As he was taking a bite from one of the rosy-checked apples, there came a tap at the door. "Enter!" cried Rafe hospitably. The hinges creaked, and there tottered in a little, bent, old woman in a long black cloak, leaning on a staff. "Good evening, Son," she said, in a cracked voice. "Are you a man of charity, or will you turn away a poor old soul who has had nothing to eat for many hours?" Rafe rose and led her to the table. "Sit down, Mother," he said kindly. "Sit and share my poor supper: a few apples from my little tree, a sup of the cream which my good little red cow gives me,--that is all; but you are welcome." "Thanks, Son," said the old woman, and without further words she began to eat. When she had finished she sat for a few moments looking into the empty bowl. Then she said:-- "Son, why do you not bake a pie for the King?" "I!" cried Rafe, astonished. "How can I make a pie? You see all I have in my cupboard. There is nothing but a little bag of flour, a pat of butter, a handful of sugar and salt."