"It is a pie for a King!" said Rafe. "But shall I be allowed in the procession, Mother?" "All the cooks in Kisington who choose may march with that guild," said the old woman. "Bear your pie proudly in your own hands, wearing your cap and apron. I will send some one to walk beside you and carry the jug of cream. She shall be here to-morrow when you milk the little red cow. Treat her kindly for my sake." "Mother, how can I ever thank you--" began Rafe. But, with a quickness which seemed impossible to her years, the old woman had slipped out of the door and was gone. The next morning bright and early Rafe went out to milk his cow. And there beside the cow stood a young maid, the fairest he had ever seen. "Good morning, Rafe," said the maid, dropping a curtsy. "I am Meg, and I have come to help you carry the King's Pie." She smiled so sweetly that Rafe's heart danced a jig. She was dressed in a neat little gown of blue with a white apron, and had set a dainty cook's cap on her flaxen curls. And she wore red stockings and shoes, with silver buckles. From under her apron she drew a little blue jug. "See, I have brought this to hold the cream," she said, "and it is full of red strawberries for your breakfast. Milk the little red cow, Rafe, and then we can eat and be gone as soon as I have skimmed the cream of yesterday." In a happy daze Rafe did as she bade. Merrily they breakfasted together on a wheaten loaf and milk and berries which the maid had brought, as if she knew how hungry Rafe would be. Then Meg skimmed the cream for the blue jug, and they were ready to start. Rafe, in his white cap and apron, bore the precious pie, while Meg walked along at his side. A merry, handsome couple they were. When they came to the market-place they found a great crowd assembled. "Ho, Rafe! Rafe!" people shouted to him, for every one knew and loved him. "Come here! Come with us!" But Rafe answered: "Nay. I am going to walk in the procession with the other cooks. I have a pie for the King." "A pie! A pie!" they cried good-naturedly. "Look at Rafe's pasty! Of what is it made, Rafe? Grasshoppers or mice?" For they knew how poor he was. But Rafe only smiled and pushed his way to where the cooks were gathered. They, too, greeted him with jests. But he insisted that he must march with them. So they gave him place at the very end of the line, with the little maid at his side. But when he saw the wonderful pies all around him, he sighed and shook his head, looking ruefully at his own simple offering. The little maid, seeing him so look, said:-- "Never mind, Rafe. You are giving your best to the King. No one can do more than that." The people waited. The hands of the great clock in the market-place crept slowly around until they marked noon. Every one began to feel uneasy, for it was close upon the dinner-hour, and the long procession had not moved. The King and Queen were late.