But Bebelle would only say, “I am at the end of ‘Patience’ now, and, if you do not mind, I will start to carve again. You see, there is very little time left until Christmas.”
As Bebelle concluded, his small audience broke up. The maid returned to her dusting, the footmen took their bowls and hammers back to the table, and Mother Jorgan, giving the pot-stick to little Bebelle, went to the door with Snyge.
With the return of the footmen, the noise was even more deafening than before. The fruit-cake was all mixed but the nuts, and the baker stood over the small regiment of workers, every now and then rapping up some lagging one with a cuff on the ears. Mother Jorgan was obliged fairly to shriek the rest of the conversation; or rather her part of it, for Snyge said very little.
“Yes, it is true. Bebelle has been carving at the old stick for weeks. He is very happy. But he is a stupid dolt. The king does not even know that he lives here in the kitchen. If he did, it would all be at an end with little Bebelle.”
“And about the hand?” asked the woodsman.
“That? Oh, well, I don’t know. No one here believes it. But I couldn’t say. It may be. But I know this much: I have seen the words come. When he was at ‘Mercy,’ a few weeks ago, one of the huntsmen brought him a little half-dead squirrel for his supper. But the foolish child warmed it and set it free. When he went back to his carving, ‘Mercy’ was there on the stick. That has been the way with them all. I know, for I have seen it with my sharp old eyes.”
Snyge gave her the basket and went out into the dusk. He had stayed long past his time.
In a little while the noise in the kitchen ceased. The nuts were all finished and put in the waiting cake, and the room was quiet but for the crackling of the fire and the chatter of the servants.
“‘Patience’ is very hard,” said little Bebelle to Mother Jorgan. “I get along very well for a while, but just as I have almost finished, the letters seem to fly back again. It is very funny.
“Listen, Mother Jorgan! Some one is coming. It is Shreve of the Fields.” His face was lit up until it seemed almost pretty, and his hands trembled at his carving.