“Once in Italy, with my master Andrew the Goldsmith, I was walking alone by olive trees and blue sea. The sun was low, there was the greatest beauty! Then gold Apollo walked with me. I saw him in lines of pale gold, and I felt him a great god, calm and happy. Vulcan is for the smiths, but I changed that day to Apollo. Not that I left Vulcan, but Apollo, too. The next month I made for Andrew the Goldsmith a cup which when he looked at he said, ‘Thou’rt accepted!’” “I remember--” “When thou rememberest me--and I remember thee--” “Will we come to remember all?” Up and down, to and fro in the smiths’ street. Snow was falling, great flakes, softly, smoothly. Jankin looked out of window. “Here cometh a great Blackfriar!” He walked along the street, a big Dominican out on his travels. Richard Englefield glanced, but did not recognize him, though, a moment afterwards, as he bent to his work, there rose in mind a picture of Montjoy’s hall the day he stood there, bound and gagged, like to burst in his rage and agony. Now he laid hand on graver’s tool and fell to work. He was fashioning a silver dish like a shell. Jankin took his cap and cloak and said good night, for the short day was closing. Morgen Fay crossed the street in the snow, returning to the house from some errand. Reaching the doorstone, she stood there a little because of delight in the great white flakes. A friar spoke to her, “Eh, my sister, a white Christmas!” “Aye, Brother, they are coming like white butterflies.” He looked more fully upon her, “Push back your hood, woman!” She knew him. “Ah! Middle Forest!” Her heart stood still, then she changed as she could expression of her face, roughened her voice. “Whiter than last Christmas, Brother! That was a brown one here in London.” “It was white in Middle Forest!” He stared in doubt. “What is your name?” “Alice Dawn, Brother.” Still he stared, but she saw his uncertainty increase. “Did ever you have a sister who called herself Morgen Fay?” She shook her head. “I had one named Mercy.” “By Saint Thomas, likenesses are strange things!” said Friar Martin. “There’s something that binds them together, if we could but get it clear!” He looked up at the smith’s sign. “‘Diccon Dawn. Silver and Gold.’ Alice Dawn! Well, you are like, all the same, so you had better say your beads, my daughter, and keep from ill ways! _Benedicite!_” He went on through the snowy street. Diccon Dawn looked up from the fluted shell. “You are as pale as the snow! What is it?” “Is Jankin gone, and the boy? Here is Friar Martin of Saint Leofric’s.” “Here!” “In the street. He has gone by. But I know that he will return.” Englefield rose from the silver work and they stood in the dusky room. “Did he know you?” he asked. She told. He said, “It was chance his being here! He saw what he thought was chance likeness. It will pass from his mind.” “It may and it may not. Will there be raised a cry against me--against us? Look!”