By next morning, most of the good creatures had taken more than enough food, and had very little appetite. However, they knew that it would be unfair to refuse all that good fare, and leave the poor Friar to face the wrath of the Abbess. So, as they retired to their beds for a morning nap, with cups of tea and stomach herbs, they promised themselves that they would compensate by eatng twice as heartily tomorrow.

Marianne and Salome stood out on the lawn, clearing the dishes of food from today's festive tables and loading them into trolleys. Marianne gave a small sigh.

"Hardly any use in leavin' good food t' moulder in the sun, if nobeast is grateful enough t' bother eatin' it."

Salome flicked a bit of crust at her. "Aw, don't start preachin', Marianne - we heard enough o' that out o' th' Mother Abbess this mornin'! "

With a noise of disgust, Marianne picked up and discarded a pudding, through which rugged spoon-paths had been carved. "Ugh! If you want t' eat it, then, for God's sake, eat it! But don't pick an' prod at it like a Dibbun, an' then leave it out on th' table! Salome, I'm startin' t' think th' Abbess is right."

Salome was busily exploring Redwall's cuisine. She found an interesting-looking cheese - paleish-brown, studded with pieces of green and red pepper - and bit into it. "Mm! Aye, may'ap th' Abbess 'as a point after all, Marianne - Samuel'd wallop me senseless for messin' over food as good as this! " The young ferretmaid suddenly cast a glance over her shoulder. "That can't be Muryet comin' over, is it? "

Marianne actually dropped a barley loaf and spun about, as if she had been warned of an approaching army. From a distance, the creature appeared to be nothing more than a scrawny little mousemaid in an overlarge habit. She heaved a sigh of relief, before turning to berate Salome for the practical joke. "Salome, I'llwallop you senseless if you ever frighten me like that again!"

Whoever the approacher was, her hearing was exceptionally good, for she was soon calling, in scandalized tones, "Marianne! Sister Jane has taught us that there is to be no violence in Redwall!"

The two young maids tensed in their places - both recognized that cough-hoarsened voice. Marianne pulled a taut smile, and, taking cue from her, Salome did the same.

Muryet came into view. The squirrelmaid's gaunt figure was swathed into a habit that looked as if had once belonged to Sister Jane. With the skirt of the habit billowing out like a parachute, buoyed by the wind and the bulk of her bushy tail, she was a ridiculous sight.

"Good morning and merry feasting to you, Marianne and Salome - that is, if I haven't missed it already. I do have a habit of oversleeping. Dear me, I'm positively famished!"

Marianne backed away, towards the nearest table. "Er, oh, my, I'm afraid all th' bread an' scones 'ave gone stale from lyin' about in th' heat!"

Salome corroborated her with vigorous head-nodding - for that was not altogether untrue. "Aye - but there's a good heap o' fruit on that platter over there, an' a wedge o' cheese."

There were no candied or honeyed nuts in sight; Marianne, Salome and the Dibbuns had happily disposed of that temptation earlier. Muryet, however, seemed to be unfazed. She filled a plate with fruit and vegetables, and emptied it just as rapidly, before dropping back onto the grass, simpering contentedly.

"Ahhh - this sunlight feels beautiful! It really helps to soften the thinness of this outside air. What a delightful feast day this is going to be! "

With a suddenness that made Salome jump, she was upon her feet again. "Where on earth is the Mother Abbess? I felt certain that she and Sister Jane would be holding a story-play for all of the Dibbuns! I'm no longer a Dibbun, of course - but I love story-plays!"

Her two companions exchanged a look - both feeling certain that the story they had heard the night before was not one that Muryet would have enjoyed.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Samuel appeared, and it was Muryet's turn to jump. He made seat at the table, pointedly failing to notice Muryet, and before Marianne could prevent him, reached for a scone.

"I don't know wot's ailin' those creatures inside, but I'm starved! "

Muryet watched, openmouthed, as he devoured the scone. If Samuel only knew the opinion that she was forming about vermin's eating habits, he would have been highly offended.

After several moments, Muryet managed to smile.

"Oh, er, sir. I suppose you're kin to Salome here?"

It was then that Samuel seemed to take notice of her. He rewarded her with a smile. "Well, actually, I 'appen t' be her brother."

"Sir. . . " Muryet hesitated. "Sir . . . you aren't eating that dreadful stale scone, are you? "

Samuel widened his smile. He was not the only one who would have been offended if he could know the opinion that the other was forming of him.

"I'd 'ardly call it stale, missie - th' Friar baked 'em only yesterday."

Then, to the horror of Salome and Marianne, he selected another scone and held it out to her.

But Muryet actually took a step backward, shaking her head. "Oh, no, sir - thank you. I've eaten already."

Still smiling fit to outshine the sun, Samuel shrugged and bit into it. "Suit yoreself, missie. No sense in leavin' good food t' waste just for th' fact it was cooked yesterday."

Muryet wrinkled her snout. "It's not that, sir. Really, I can't stand the taste of bread."

For the second time that day, the other two young maids exchanged a look.

"If you say so, missie. Are you Muryet?"

All of Muryet's discomfort seemed to vanish, and she beamed.

"Of course I am! How on earth did you know? The Abbess must have been speaking of me - nicely, I hope?"

Seeing as Samuel was too bewildered to form a reply, Marianne cut in smoothly. "Aye, she was just now sayin' t' Sister Jane what a kind, clever young maid you are. But she's awfully worn out from yesterday's feastin' an' all."

Muryet's face fell. Her lower lip began to quiver.

"But . . . how could she be napping? I've not seen her in ages . . . . and a feast isn't a feast without the Mother Abbess . . . "

Just as the squirrelmaid's eyes were beginning to fill, Salome spoke up hastily. "Now, there's no need for bawlin', Muryet," she said, using her most soothing, motherly voice. (Soothing, motherly voices were not Salome's strong suit, but we must give her credit for doing the best that she could.) "The Mother Abbess'll be out later, you'll see. I say, th' Friar Jerome's been talkin' about you. He says he's not certain he'll live another season if he doesn't get t' see yore face."

Instantly, the tears were forgotten; Muryet's face was alight once more. "Oh, dear, sweet old Friar Jerome!"

The image of the Friar, languishing on his deathbed, did not seem to diminish her joy in the least. "I must go into the Abbey at once! Would you care to accompany me?"

Taking a cue from Marianne, Samuel performed what he thought was a gallant bow. (Actually, now that the occasion called for it, he did fairly well.) "I'd be honored, missie. Er, aren't you two comin'?"

"Oh, aye, but first we'd better cart all o' this food inside." Marianne admired Muryet for handling her bread withdrawal so courageously; but she was not willing to take any risks.

A while later, all four young creatures were inside, Muryet was sitting in Cavern Hole, feasting on candied fruits, and the food had been rescued and returned to the kitchens, where Marianne was explaining the bread situation to Samuel.

"Miz Muryet's an invalid, eh?" Samuel commented. "I've never seen an invalid before - I've only seen th' creatures that were livin', an' th' creatures that were dead, or would be dead before long. Drunk off o' bread? Salome was th' same way about onions when she was younger - now she can't stand th' smell of 'em. Just a moment ago I offered yore squirrelmaid a scone, an' she wouldn't touch it. Make th' little ninny start eatin' like any other creature an' she'll be as 'ealthy as you or me!"

The Friar met his eyes. "That may be so, young 'un - I don't know. But while I'm responsible for it, I won't take no risks." He shook his head. "Sister Jane'll 'ave to start 'er again in Abbeyschool t' make up for lost seasons in that gate'ouse - no tellin' 'ow many tomes an' scrolls she's read, but I'd be surprised if she 'as all those facts straight in 'er poor 'ead!"

There was a bit of awkward silence. Then Samuel rose with a stretch and a yawn, feigning nonchalance. "Well, I might as well 'ead out t' fetch that fuel for you, Friar. You'd best come along, Salome - no use in you spendin' th' season sittin' about eatin' th' woodlanders out o' house an' 'ome."

Marianne seized a dishcloth. "Eat our Abbey out o' house an' 'ome, will you? Ha, over my dead body!" She charged Salome, and a playful fight erupted between the young maids.

Samuel caught hold of Salome just before she collided into him. "Say, watch it, or you'll 'ave me in th' Infirmary!"

Salome heard nothing, for she had already plunged back into the fray.

The Friar watched the two young roughhousers, smiling. "Bless their 'earts. May'ap you'd like t' take Marianne along with you, Samuel? She's never gone outside o' th' Abbey before."

Salome had found her own weapon, and a dishcloth duel cmmenced. Samuel smiled, too, in spite of himself. "That squirrelmaid can follow us t' th' ends o' th' earth if she likes. "

"Good." The Friar lowered his voice. "Then may'ap you'd like t' take Muryet off o' my paws, as well. Th' fresh air an' sunlight'll do her th' world o' good - better than 'avin' her spend th' day wanderin' about th' Abbey like a spectre."

Samuel took the hint, but without much enthusiasm. As frail and sickly as the squirrelmaid looked, he would be surprised if she was able to walk for more than fifty paces without collapsing.

The hedgehog Friar patted Samuel's head, carefully, so as not to harm him with his spikes. "You're becomin' a good creature, Master Samuel."

Samuel moved away, brusque with embarassment. "Come on, Salome, Miz Marianne. One of you go an' fetch Miz Muryet, will you!"