"Delicious! I never tasted anything finer!" she cried. "I must have the recipe." "I must have the cook!" cried the King, turning to Rafe, with a broad grin on his merry, fat face. "You must come with me and cook such pies for every meal. Yes, I will have them for breakfast, too," he insisted, in response to a protest from the Queen. Just then up stepped Hugh, the Lord Mayor. "Sire," said he, bowing low, "will Your Majesty deign to point out to me the pie which has best pleased you, that I may have it set in the place of honor, and give the prize to the maker?" "That I cannot do," said the King, "for the pie no longer exists. I have eaten it!" And he slapped his generous waistband. "But give whatever prize there may be to this worthy fellow, whom I now dub Baron Applepy. Baron, wear this ring in token of my pleasure in your pie." He drew a fine ruby from his finger and gave it to Rafe. "And this is for the little maid," said the Queen, taking a beautiful pearl necklace and tossing it over Meg's curls. But Roger, the master cook, stood by and tore his hair when he saw what was happening. Then up came the yoke of white oxen drawing the cart bearing the prize. And the Lord Mayor gave a goad into Rafe's hands, with words of congratulation. "Now, mount and come with me," said the King. But Rafe hesitated. "Your Majesty," he replied, "I see no way to make another pie like this which has pleased you. For I have no more of the magic nuts wherewith to flavor a second." The King frowned. "What! No more pie! Is this to be the first and the last? Sirrah, I am not pleased!" Then little Meg stepped forth. "The magic nut is the nutmeg," said she. "My name is Meg, and Granny called the magic nuts after me. I know where is hidden a store of them. These are my dower." She emptied her pockets of the nuts which they held, and they were a precious handful. "Ha!" cried the King eagerly, "you must marry Baron Applepy, that he may use your dower in our behalf." Rafe and the maid looked sidewise at one another. "You are willing, my dear?" said the Queen, smiling upon Meg. "Yes," whispered she, with red-apple cheeks. "Yes, indeed!" cried Rafe when the Queen looked at him. But again he seemed troubled. "Your Majesty," he said, "I cannot leave my poor neighbors. There will be no one to cook for them at my prices." "You shall have your own price from me," said the King. Rafe bowed low. "You do me great honor," he said humbly. "But I cannot leave my poor people, my house and my cow and my apple tree; indeed, I cannot." The King looked very angry and raised his staff with a gesture of wrath. But the Queen laid her hand upon his arm. "Why may he not live where he will and yet cook the pies for us?" she said. "A messenger on a fleet horse can bring them to us every day. We shall then have pies like that first delicious one, made of fresh apples from that very same red-apple tree of his. They would be best of all."