"It is enough," said the stranger. "Son, I will show you a secret. You have been kind to me. Now I will tell you that which until this day no man has known. You shall make the King a pie, indeed!" "But, Mother," interrupted Rafe, smiling, "you do not know what manner of pies are being made. There will be many, though I have seen but one--a giant pie, a glorious pie, all golden crust and flowers and pink little babies who sing!" "Humph!" grunted the old woman. "A pie for a pasteboard King. Why not cook a pie to tempt a hungry man?" "The King is, indeed, a man," mused Rafe. "But how shall I make a pie without viands of any sort?" (As I have said, to speak of a pie in those days meant always a dish of meat or game or poultry.) "I will tell you," said the old woman. "Have you not a tree of red apples? Yes, luscious apples of a goodly flavor, for I have tasted them." She leaned forward, whispering earnestly: "Make your pie of them, my Son!" "Apples! A pie of apples!" cried Rafe. "Who ever heard of such a thing!" (And at this time, indeed, no one had.) "Nay, you need not laugh so scornfully," said the old crone. "You shall see! I will help you." At her command Rafe fetched out the bag of flour, and the butter, salt, and sugar. Then he went to gather a basket of apples, while the old woman mended the fire and mixed the dough. Wonderingly he watched her pare the apples, core and slice them, and cover all with a blanket of crust laid softly over, but not tucked in at the edges as for an ordinary pasty. Soon the pie was baked, all flaky and brown. When it came smoking hot from the oven, the old woman slipped a knife under the blanket of crust and lifted it aside. "See," she said, "the apples are steamed and soft. Now I will mash them with a knife and mix the butter and sugar generously therein. This one must ever do, Son, last of all. This is the crown of my secret, the only recipe for a perfect pie." Rafe watched her curiously, by no means convinced. Then, from a pouch somewhere concealed in her robe, she drew out a strange round nut, such as Rafe had never seen before. "This is the final blessing," she said. "See, I will grate a little of this magic nut into the pie." Forthwith it was done, and a whiff of spicy fragrance reached Rafe's nose, and, more than anything, gave him confidence in this strange new pie. "It smells worthy," said Rafe hungrily. Without a word the stranger drew from under a cover a little pie baked in a tiny tin, an exact copy of the other. "Eat," she said: "eat and judge if my secret be worth keeping." Rafe sunk his teeth into the warm, crisp crust and ate eagerly. His eyes sparkled, but he spoke no word till the last crumb was gone. "Oh!" he said, "it is a magic pie! Never such have I met before! Never, in all my life!" The old woman nodded. "A magic pie," she said. "And still better when you serve it with the yellow cream of your little red cow."