There was a high-roofed house with more than one great chimney stack out of which rose and waved full and plumy smoke feathers. Down chimney great burning logs, flame wrapped and purring, made the house warm, it being the house of the merchant Eustace Bettany. Alongside stood his warehouse and his shop, and one passed by doors from the one into the other. His house was clean, well-fitted. To-day, it being Christmas tide, he had shut shop and given holiday, and was gone, he and his wife and two daughters, to a kinsman’s house to dine and talk around kinsman’s fire, and listen to some music from viols and rebecs. His son, young Thomas, had turned wilful and would not go. Nor would he, this day, go to seek a jolly crew in some tavern. He often enough did that, but to-day his mood was indoors. Having house to himself, he piled on wood and summoned John Cobb. “You’ve on your mad dreaming cap!” said the latter. Thomas plied the ash stick. “If I have not a play to go to, must I not make the play? I cannot sit still. I must run, dance, fly. I would a witch would come down chimney and show me how!” John Cobb crossed himself. The fire burned, the fire sang. The snow fell, large flakes, white, down coming with an intimate, cool grace. Somerville rode into town. He rode musingly, wrapped in a great grey mantle, with a wide, grey, stiffened felt hat, keeping snow from him much like a shed roof. He had ridden from manor to Silver Cross where he had been entertained. Now he rode on to Middle Forest, and he rode in a deep study. Certain muscles twitched in his odd, brown face. Upon setting out he had not meant to go farther than Silver Cross. He hardly knew why he should ride on down Wander. Perhaps he might think that he wanted time to think. But below consciousness decisions were already made, actions acted. That was what drew the muscles about mouth and eyes and, sitting in his wrist, turned his big bay horse down Wander, not up. He might think that he was thinking, but old life was acting after old fashion. He rode through falling snow, and he rode not in the mood of one night at Morgen Fay’s, but in a pleasanter, brisker mood. He felt amused, speculative, genial, triumphant. It was well to find human nature through and through the ancient, pleasant, faulty pattern! He did not dislike it--marry, no! It strengthened, buttressed, warmed and pleased his sense of himself to feel warp and woof so continuous. Silver Cross had this day withdrawn all claim to that debated good mile of land. It had acknowledged Somerville’s right. Parchment crackled in his pocket, parchment with Abbot Mark’s name and seal at bottom. Land at last in his hand. Why? Somerville knew why. “I am bought for the miracles.” Laughter played over his quick face. Prior Matthew had “chanced” to be at Silver Cross. “He is the puppet master!”