"Thanks, Son," said the old woman, and without further words she began to eat. When she had finished she sat for a few moments looking into the empty bowl. Then she said:--
"Son, why do you not bake a pie for the King?"
"I!" cried Rafe, astonished. "How can I make a pie? You see all I have in my cupboard. There is nothing but a little bag of flour, a pat of butter, a handful of sugar and salt."
"It is enough," said the stranger. "Son, I will show you a secret. You have been kind to me. Now I will tell you that which until this day no man has known. You shall make the King a pie, indeed!"
"But, Mother," interrupted Rafe, smiling, "you do not know what manner of pies are being made. There will be many, though I have seen but one--a giant pie, a glorious pie, all golden crust and flowers and pink little babies who sing!"
"Humph!" grunted the old woman. "A pie for a pasteboard King. Why not cook a pie to tempt a hungry man?"
"The King is, indeed, a man," mused Rafe. "But how shall I make a pie without viands of any sort?" (As I have said, to speak of a pie in those days meant always a dish of meat or game or poultry.)
"I will tell you," said the old woman. "Have you not a tree of red apples? Yes, luscious apples of a goodly flavor, for I have tasted them." She leaned forward, whispering earnestly: "Make your pie of them, my Son!"
"Apples! A pie of apples!" cried Rafe. "Who ever heard of such a thing!" (And at this time, indeed, no one had.)
"Nay, you need not laugh so scornfully," said the old crone. "You shall see! I will help you."