"Help yourself!" invited Peter Grimm.
The boy obeyed the suggestion before it was made. Already his mouth was full of cake and his jaws were working rapturously.
"Das is lecker!" he murmured, biting into another of the cakes.
He picked a large and obese raisin from a third, swallowed it, then reached for the sugar bowl. Two lumps of sugar went the way of the raisin. After which a handful of sugar lumps were stuffed into his night-clothes' pocket for future delectation in bed. The cream pitcher next met the forager's eye. Willem looked at it longingly.
"Take it," said Peter Grimm. "It's good, thick, sweet cream. Drink it down. That's right. It won't hurt you. Nothing can hurt you now."
"I haven't had such a good time," Willem confided to his inner consciousness, "since Mynheer Grimm died. Why"—he broke off, his roving gaze concentrating on the hat-rack—"there's his hat! It's—he's here! Oh, Mynheer Grimm!" he wailed aloud in utter longing. "Take me back with you!"
"You know I'm here?" asked the Dead Man joyously. "Can you see me?"
"No, sir," came the answer without a breath of hesitation or any hint of misunderstanding.
"Here," ordered Peter Grimm, his face alight, "take my hand. Have you got it?"
He placed his right hand around the boy's groping palm.