ing enough
that Rachel Potkin should have those or any other comforts he could
bring her. But that basket had been packed under Christie's eyes, and
in part by Christie's hands, and the child had delighted herself in the
thought of Aunt Alice's pleasure in every item. And when at last the
roll of butter was lifted out, and behind it the eggs which it had
confined in a safe corner, and Roger came to the two tiny eggs which
Christie had put in with special care, saying, "Now, Father, you'll be
sure to tell Aunt Alice those eggs were laid by my own little hen, and
she must eat them her own self, because I sent them to her"--as Roger
took out the eggs of Christie's hen, he could hardly restrain a sob,
which was partly for the child's coming disappointment, and partly
caused by his own anxious suspense and distress. The porter had not
spoken very plainly--he had probably avoided doing so on purpose--but it
was sufficiently manifest that the authorities had their eyes on Roger
himself, and that he ran serious risk of arrest if he remained in
Canterbury.

But what had they done with Alice? He must find her. Whatever became
of him, he must look for Alice.

Roger turned away from the gate of the gaol, sick at heart. He scarcely
remembered even to thank the friendly porter, and turned back to repair
the omission.

"If you be thankful to me," was the porter's significant answer, "look
you take my counsel."

Slowly, as if he were walking in a dream, and scarcely knew where he was
going, Roger made his way back to the Star. There all was bustle and
commotion, for some people of high rank had just arrived on a pilgrimage
to the shrine of Saint Thomas of Canterbury, or rather to the place
where the shrine had stood in past ages. King Henry the Eighth had
destroyed the shrine, and a soldier had "rattled down proud Becket's
glassy bones," but the spot where it had been was considered holy, and
the poor deluded people even yet sometimes came to worship there, and to
make their painful way up the Pilgrims' Stairs, which they had to ascend
on their knees. Those stairs are now to be seen in Canterbury
Cathedral, worn by the thousands of knees which went up them, the poor
creatures fancying that by this means they would obtain pardon of their
sins, or earn a seat in Heaven.

The bustle in the inn rather favoured Roger's escape. He mounted his
horse, tied the basket to his saddle, and rode out of Wincheap Gate,
wondering all