"It was the Lilies, wasn't it? Folk round here all knew the name - and'd pretend they didn't. But you don't see anyone flashing the scarf and expecting folks to jump these days. There's still a few of them around, but they're not so much bother. Seems the times have turned against them."
"Well, Mildred, eh? Come in, come in! Leave the door open until I get some light inside."
Gillin shuffles through his door. He lives only a few steps from abject poverty. His room is furnished sparsely with a straw-stuffed mattress on a pallet bed against the wall, a simple table and a chair near the open fireplace.
He sets his bowl of food down on the table. There's a case there too, which he pats with an affectionate hand. When he lifts the lid, the room fills with a light as bright as that of any oil lamp, but whiter.
He lifts out a glowing morning star. As he hefts it to shoulder height in both hands, his shadow is cast starkly on the wall, larger than the real man, and for a moment it's possible to imagine him as he was sixty years ago, young with a magic weapon and hope before him.
"Mildred," he says. "Silly of me, but I still can't bear to part with her."