Raoul, the farmer’s boy, helped himself to a steaming cup of coffee from a tall, white jug on the table in the back room and selected a nicely browned croissant from the plate beside the jug. Then he shoved his basket over to one side and looked about for a place to rest and eat. He had been on his feet all day, and he was glad of the prospect of a bite to eat and, perhaps, a nap. Beyond the pantry room, at one side, were the kitchens, from which issued a savory odor of baking and the jangle of many voices; on the other side, at the back, was something that looked like a storeroom. On going into the storeroom, Raoul found that it was filled with old boxes, bundles of paper, a broken chair or two, and some tubs. He sat down on a dingy settle without a back, in a dim corner of this junk room. At the other end of the room was a short stairway leading to a narrow gallery. The remains of an old bureau and some more boxes were heaped up on the little gallery. Raoul sipped his hot, sweet coffee and munched his croissant. The warmth from the baking kitchens and the quiet after his busy day made him drowsy, and soon he was fast asleep. He woke suddenly and sat up. The bakery woman was climbing the stairway, carrying a tray. When she reached the gallery she put the tray down on the floor in front of a door which faced her. Taking some keys from her waist she unlocked the door and then picked up the tray. At that moment, through the half-open door, Raoul caught sight of a boy, who sat facing him on a window ledge in a corner of the room. Raoul rubbed his eyes. He was not one to fancy things. Surely he was awake and not dreaming! He had seen a boy sitting on a window ledge in an otherwise unused room back of the storeroom. He had seen him distinctly. The light from a window behind had shone upon the boy’s fair hair. He saw the bakery woman unlock the door upon going in, and he knew she had locked it again when she went inside. He had heard the lock click. The boy in the room must be a prisoner! Raoul picked up his basket of vegetables and went quickly out, unnoticed by the bustling groups in the kitchens and pantry. After she had bolted the door, the woman crossed the room, and, putting the tray down on the window sill beside her prisoner, surveyed him, her hands on her hips. Lisle returned her gaze unconcernedly. “A nice, grateful kind of boy you are, to be sure! Here I leave my patrons and my shop to come up here with good, fresh milk brought straight from the country by a market gardener, and crisp cakes baked in my own oven this very day, and never so much as a 'Thank you’ from you for all my pains. Name of a name, but you’re a proud one!”