The sergeant of the guard was seen to open his eyes and glare very suspiciously at the spear-bearer nearest to him. He exclaimed, upon noting the stupid expression in the spear-bearer's eyes—"Ah-ha! I caught you asleep, did I?"

To which the spear-bearer replied nervously, "Not to say asleep, exactly, I just closed my eyes because a bit of smoke got into them."

The scullion by the fireplace opened his eyes and sat quite still for an instant, all his attention concentrated upon the others in the room, at whom, however, he was afraid to look. It was his aim to conceal from them the fact that he had been asleep.

The kettle on the crane in the fireplace began to sing cheerfully and an appetizing odor arose. Flames began to dance in the fireplace.

The lady of honor with affected testiness addressed the Sleeping Beauty. "It's high time you were stirring, I should say," was her comment. "It seems to me we are all becoming quite indolent!"

The Sleeping Beauty would not respond to her mood of bustling levity. She gazed wonderingly and patiently at the lady of honor; and then turning her attention to Everychild she said in a dreamy voice—

"I think I shall rise!"

She offered her hand to Everychild, and he assisted her to her feet. I am informed that "he took care not to tell her that she was dressed like her great-grandmother, and had a point band peeping over a high collar." My own belief is that perhaps he scarcely noticed this.

They moved forward, the Sleeping Beauty maintaining an air of dreaminess, while Everychild simply could not remove his eyes from her—she was so perfect!

All the others in the room were silent, gazing now at the Sleeping Beauty, and now at Everychild.

And just at that moment there were evidences of new life in the adjoining apartments. You could hear some one playing on a spinnet. A sentry on a distant wall called the hour. Lords and ladies could be heard laughing together. And then there was a great to-do; the king and queen, father and mother of the Sleeping Beauty, entered the room!

There was now a respectful silence for you! You could have heard a pin drop. Little train-bearers came behind the king and queen. Then came lords and ladies, and then the court chamberlain, and at last a few others whose functions I cannot even name.

The king was pleased to speak presently. "And so you have finished your nap, daughter?" he said.

The Sleeping Beauty stood before him with a radiant face. "And only observe who it was that awakened me!" she replied, inclining her head toward Everychild.

Said the king: "He is the guest whose coming was foretold, no doubt. Long ago it was written that one should awaken you and claim you as his bride."

There was general delight and amazement at this: so frankly manifested that the humblest of Everychild's companions lost all sense of caution. The smallest son of the Old Woman who lived in a shoe actually undertook to stand on his head, while the little black dog ran here and there barking with the utmost freedom.

In the general excitement Mr. Literal took occasion to remark to the Masked Lady: "But—dear me!—it's all fiction of the most extravagant character—the account of the Sleeping Beauty and the rest of it!"

But the Masked Lady smiled in her puzzling way and said: "When you would find the truth perfectly told, you will always find it in a story. It is only facts which lead us hopelessly astray."

However, the Sleeping Beauty was speaking again. She was replying to what her father had said. "That's very nice, I'm sure!" she said. And she turned to Everychild with a blissful smile.

It seemed the king did not mean that any time should be lost. He turned majestically to the sergeant of the guard. "Go," said he, "and bid the trumpeter summon all within hearing to assemble in the chapel." Then, to those who were assembled in the room, "The wedding shall take place without delay. Let us to the chapel."

The sergeant disappeared, and almost immediately there was the sound of a bugle blowing on the castle wall.

The king and queen went out, followed by their train-bearers, pages and others.

Everychild hesitated; but the Sleeping Beauty, with a reassuring nod, took his hand, and they followed.

There was a moment's confusion among Everychild's companions; but they speedily got themselves into line. Will o'Dreams led them; and there followed Hansel and Grettel, Little Bo-Peep and Little Boy Blue, Prince Arthur and Tom Hubbard, the children of the Old Woman who lived in a shoe, and last of all the little black dog.

Only Cinderella, with a certain strange quiet upon her, remained in her place, while the Masked Lady and Mr. Literal stood regarding her.

Words broke from her tremulously: "And so it is to be the Sleeping Beauty! I had hoped . . . there was to be one who would find my crystal slipper and come for me . . ."

She had scarcely uttered the words when the Masked Lady stepped forward and touched her face with gentle fingers and kissed her brow.

A happy transformation occurred in Cinderella's face. She stood gazing into vacancy a moment, her eyes shining. An instant later she dashed from the room, to be present at the wedding ceremony. Already, in the distance, the strains of the Lohengrin march could be heard.

The Masked Lady would have gone into the chapel then, but she was detained by Mr. Literal, who said irritably: "That march—you know it's really quite modern. Wagner, isn't it?"

The Masked Lady replied with a certain repression: "Beautiful things are never modern—yet always modern. They have existed always, from the dawn of time, waiting for the proper occasion for their use. Come, I must be present at the wedding of Everychild."

"Still," said Mr. Literal drily, "I should say there have been many weddings at which you were not present."

But she was not listening. She had gone; and he smilingly followed.

The sound of music gradually died away. There was a distant murmur of voices. Then again the music sounded, louder, with a quality of triumph in it. Louder and louder it sounded.

The bridal party returned! Flower girls ran before, scattering flowers. Everychild and the Sleeping Beauty appeared, followed by the king and queen.

A great throng entered the room: lords and ladies, the companions of Everychild, led now by Cinderella.

The bride and the bridegroom were surrounded. They were acclaimed in loud voices. They were lifted aloft. The little black dog barked madly.

Such a scene had never been witnessed before.



CHAPTER XXIV

TIME PASSES

The same room in the castle—the room where the pomp and ceremony had been.

But it was empty now. The flowers which had been scattered on the floor had been swept away. Silence reigned.

Presently two doors opened: one on the right, the other on the left. But though the doors opened, not a sound was to be heard, and for an instant no one appeared.

And then—some one was coming.

Father Time entered at one of the doors. He walked slowly and quietly across the room. He carried his scythe and sand-glass. He glanced neither to left nor right.

He went out at the other door!



PART V

ARGUMENT: ON HIS WANDERINGS EVERYCHILD BETHINKS HIM OF HIS PARENTS, AND DISCOVERS THAT THOUGH HE HAS SEEMED TO LOSE THEM, HE HAS NOT REALLY DONE SO.



CHAPTER XXV

WILL O'DREAMS REPORTS A DISCOVERY

We have seen how time passed in the castle where Everychild and his companions had come to dwell. Now let us see what followed.

On a beautiful summer day Everychild and the Sleeping Beauty sat in the great room of the golden furniture and the fire place and the alcove. They occupied two little golden chairs near the middle of the room. They were rocking placidly and saying nothing to each other. Now they rocked backward and forward together, and again they rocked quite contrariwise.

And what have we here? Close to the Sleeping Beauty there was a tiny cradle, all of gold. And in it—well, you could see tresses of wonderful golden hair, and the most marvelous blue eyes which would open and shut, and a complexion which was simply perfect. Just now the eyes were closed.

At a little distance from them there was a spectacle most beautiful to behold. This was afforded by the Masked Lady and the task in which she was engaged. She stood near an immense open window, beside the most beautiful dove-cote ever seen. It was silver and green, topping a pillar of gold. It had several compartments, all containing pure white doves. These were engaged in bringing or carrying messages. At intervals doves entered the open window and perched on the Masked Lady's arms. These were placed in the cote and others were removed from the cote and carried to the window, from which they flew away and disappeared.

While the Masked Lady was engaged in this task it was to be noted that there was a very sad expression in her eyes. She was turning over certain things in her mind.

The truth is that Everychild had been married just a year, and she was thinking how it would be necessary before long for him to be conducted to the grim Mountain of Reality. She knew that this was a very terrible experience, or that it would seem so just at first; and that is why there was a sad expression in her eyes. She knew very well, however, that the matter could not be put off very much longer. Indeed, she had been able to detect an occasional shadow in Everychild's eyes which proved that he was already beginning to see the formidable Mountain of Reality in the distance. I should also explain that the messages she was sending and receiving with the aid of the white doves all had a bearing upon the plan she had in mind of taking Everychild, ere long, upon the most difficult journey he was ever to make.

Although silence reigned in the room, there was the murmur of children's voices in the distance, occasionally rising to a joyous shout. The children were clearly at play in some invisible court; and when their cries were particularly joyous, Everychild and the Sleeping Beauty glanced at each other and smiled indulgently.

At length the voices of the children became inaudible; and a moment later Cinderella entered the room. She stood an instant, her hands on her hips and an almost impatient expression in her eyes; and then she approached Everychild and the Sleeping Beauty.

Everychild glanced up at her with a slightly patronizing smile. "Well, Cinderella?" he asked.

She put her hair back rather energetically and exclaimed—"Oh, I'm bored. That's the honest truth. Those games out there—they do get so tiresome. And Grettel is such a simpleton, really. She keeps saying 'Think of something else for us to play, Cinderella—think of something else.' She never thinks of anything herself. Neither does Hansel, nor any of them."

She sighed and glanced back the way she had come, and it was to be noted that the sound of playing had not been resumed.

It was the Sleeping Beauty who replied. "Never mind, Cinderella," she said. "You know I realize quite well what it is to be bored." She had spoken gently; and now she smiled with a certain playfulness. "The prince with the missing slipper will find you soon enough. You've only to be patient, and the day will come when you'll seldom be bored any more."

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Cinderella; and with perfect candor she added, "Aren't you bored? You look it: sitting there as if you hadn't a single thought in your head."

The Sleeping Beauty laughed. "You dear, foolish thing!" she replied. "Bored? The idea! I'm perfectly happy. Of course, there are times . . ." She broke off and meditated, and actually sighed. "Come, we'll go and look at the goldfish," she added briskly.

They went away together, taking cradle and all. All of a sudden they seemed as energetic as sparrows. They seemed for the moment really indifferent to Everychild, who remained in his chair alone.

When they had gone he leaned forward in an elegant yet somewhat dejected attitude, his hands clasped between his knees. Then he arose, shrugging his shoulders as if a burden were clinging to them, and turned toward the Masked Lady.

"What are you doing?" he asked wonderingly.

She set free a fine dove, which immediately disappeared through the window.

"I am getting ready for a very important journey," she said.

He watched her intently. Presently he said, in a strange, abashed tone, "You seem a very nice, kind lady, after all!"

She did not reply to this, because a dove came in at that instant and she busied herself placing it in its compartment in the cote.

He continued to regard her, though he was now studying her face, rather than taking note of her work with the doves. "Sometimes," he continued falteringly, "I have a wish to speak to you—I mean, to tell you of things which I cannot speak of to others."

"I have tried always, Everychild, to be close to you," she said.

For an instant it seemed to him that it would not be difficult at all to speak to her of what was in his heart. And he said, "You know I—I am not very happy."

She replied to this with gentle mockery. "Not happy?" she said; "and yet there are many to play with you, and none to turn away from you with coldness and indifference—any more."

He became strangely still. What did she mean by that? He had never told her about his childhood; he had never mentioned his parents to her. Whom could she be, that she should know so many things without having to be told? Or was she speaking only of the present, without reference to the past?

"My playmates are all friendly," he said; "but you know I have come far from home . . ."

When he faltered she added, "But have you found what you started out to find?"

He was a little embarrassed. "What I started out to find?" he echoed. "I don't seem to remember——"

"You know you started out to find the truth," she said.

He nodded. "So I did," he declared. "But so many things have happened, especially since I found the Sleeping Beauty, and it's been so nice, most of the time . . ."

"Still, you shouldn't give up, you know," she said. "Maybe that's the reason why you're not quite happy—because you haven't found the truth."

He sighed heavily. She hadn't comforted him, after all. And somehow he could not tell her that what ailed him was that he was heartsick to see his parents again. He remembered the pretty sitting room at home, and the way his father and mother used to look; and it seemed to him that if he could go back they would perhaps be happy to see him. But he could not speak of all this to the Masked Lady.

He was greatly amazed when she said in a low tone: "It would be the same thing over again if you didn't find the truth before you went back."

It was quite as if he had spoken his thoughts to her aloud!

He drew away from her uneasily; but even as he did so she received another dove which fluttered in at the window. And as she read the message it had brought she said musingly—almost as if she were reading the message, and not speaking to him at all—"Everychild shall find his parents again!"

He felt that he almost loved her when he heard those words—almost, yet not quite. His heart beat more lightly. He wondered where all the children had gone. He listened for their voices.

It was then that an outer door opened hurriedly and the giant, Will o'Dreams, entered the room. Perceiving Everychild, he stood an instant with clinched hands and uplifted face; and then he cried out in a loud voice:

"Everychild!"

And Everychild replied, with a little of that kindly condescension which a married man feels toward a youth, "Well, my boy?"

The giant cried out with elation, "Everychild, I have found her house!"

"You have found her house?" echoed Everychild in perplexity.

"My mother's house! I have seen it again! These many days, while you have been happy here, I have made countless journeys far and near. I made a final search. I could not give her up. And now I have found her house—the house where I dwelt when I was a child!"

This was good news, indeed. Everychild knew how the heart of the giant had yearned for his mother. He smiled delightedly. "Ah, and so you have seen her at last!" he cried.

"I have not seen her—no," confessed the giant. "They would not allow me to enter—they who surround her. I was but one, and they were many; and they are cruel and relentless. But now that I have found the place which shelters her I shall not give up until I stand face to face with her again. Dear Everychild . . ."

"Well?" said Everychild, seeing that his friend found it very hard to continue.

"I have come now to tell you we must part. I could not remain away, remembering that I had not bade you farewell. But now I go to watch for her until she emerges from her door, or until her followers slumber . . . Oh, the obstacles shall be as nothing. Only rejoice with me that I am to meet her again at last!"

But Everychild's heart became heavy. "And we must part?" he asked in a low voice. "Please do not say so! We, who have become like brothers . . . is there no other way?"

"There is no other way," replied the giant. "Do not doubt that I too shall grieve because of our parting; but after searching for her in vain all these years . . ."

But Everychild, after a moment's reflection, cried out resolutely, "There is another way. I shall go with you! And after you have found her, who knows——"

The giant was now happy indeed. "You will go with me?" he cried; "you will leave all that makes you happy here and go with me into possible perils? Then make haste—oh, make haste, that we may be on our way."

And speaking thus the giant rushed eagerly from the room.

For a moment Everychild stood lost in thought. It was the Masked Lady who aroused him. "It will be but a short journey," she said; and it seemed to Everychild that she spoke sadly. "Go with him, and be sure you shall make a speedy return."

He would have gone, then. Already he was putting great energy into his feet, that he might overtake the giant. But the Masked Lady detained him.

"A word," she said. "Be patient with him, and comfort him, whatever may befall. And Everychild—take this with you."

As she spoke she produced quite magically the slim, shining sword she had lent him once before. "Carry this," she said. "When it is drawn a certain door which would otherwise remain shut will open wide. And be of good cheer."

He took the sword mutely, wonderingly. How should it cause a door to open? he mused.

When he had reached the outer door he turned to look again upon the Masked Lady. She was smiling a little oddly—almost sadly, he thought. She was holding forth her hands toward the open window. She was not paying heed to him now. White doves were entering at the window and alighting on her hands.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE HIDDEN TEMPLE

Everychild paused in the court long enough to explain to the Sleeping Beauty and his friends that he was setting forth on an important mission with Will o'Dreams; and then the two companions set forth from the castle and began the descent of the road which led down into the valley.

Soon they came upon the road which they had formerly traveled—the Road of Troubled Children. And before the day was spent they had covered a great distance, since the giant, in his impetuous mood, set a very fast gait.

Toward sundown they turned a little away from the road and entered a forest of a nature so confusing and forbidding that Everychild paused in dismay. But the giant kept straight on, saying he was very sure of the way, and after a moment's halt, Everychild followed him.

In the very heart of the forest they paused, and Everychild's eyes opened wide with wonder: for before them was an amazing sight.

On a fair plateau a temple of white marble stood forth brightly in the light of the setting sun. It was the most perfect temple ever seen. It had a broad flight of steps, at the top of which there were pillars which almost resembled glass, so great was their purity. In the midst of the pillars there was a broad door set with precious gems. Here and there were alabaster urns.

No one was stirring about the temple. The door was closed. But at a little distance, on a perfectly kept lawn, there were numerous square blocks of marble, and on these certain extraordinary-appearing persons were seated.

We may as well know at once that the temple was the Temple of Truth; and the persons who sat on the blocks of marble, or pedestals, were known as Truth's devotees. The names of the devotees were graved on the pedestals, and a few of those which Everychild could see were Mr. Benevolent Institution, Dr. Orthodox Doctrine, Mrs. Justitia, Mr. Inflexible Creed, Mr. Professional Politician and Mr. Policeman. And of course there were many others.

They were all dressed presentably enough, save that Mrs. Justitia's robes were clearly of very cheap material, and the bandage about her eyes had slipped down so that one eye could be seen peeping out sharply; while Mr. Policeman had a really unsightly red nose, which made his blue uniform seem rather absurd.

The devotees of Truth sat staring straight before them. They seemed sleepy, and they continually nodded their heads like mandarins. Mr. Policeman was the only member of the group who did not nod continually. He was fast asleep! He stirred occasionally when a fly circled about his nose. On these occasions he waved his hand smartly before his face.

The oddest-appearing member of the group was, perhaps, Mr. Professional Politician. He wore a tiny mask with a smile like a cherub's painted on it. He kept touching the mask, as though he feared it might fall off; and when he did so it could be seen that he had an enormous, coarse hand which did not match the false face at all.

Just the same, the temple was very beautiful; and Everychild and the giant stood gazing at it with reverence.

The giant was the first to speak. "This is the place," he said. "And beyond that door, inside the temple, is where my mother is hidden."

Everychild nodded. Presently he thought to ask: "And all those—those . . ." He really could not think how to refer to those persons on the pedestals.

But the giant understood. "We needn't pay any attention to them just now," he said. "They'll neither see nor hear us as long as we just stand here. It's only when we try to get into the temple that they become really terrible."

"And what do they do then?" asked Everychild.

"Various dreadful things. Mr. Benevolent Institution would lock us up where we'd see the sky only now and then and where we'd have to wear uniforms, and all act alike and eat alike, and go to sleep and wake up together."

Everychild shuddered and moved closer to his companion. "Don't speak so loud, please," he said. "And what about the others?"

"Mr. Orthodox Doctrine is one of those fellows . . . well, he used to burn you, you know; but now he freezes you."

"And the others?"

"It's not easy to explain. The lady—Mrs. Justitia—has a habit . . . I hate to say it, but she's forever asking you how much money you've got, and whether you've got any influential friends (if you could only know what she means by that!)—questions of that sort, which a nice person wouldn't ask you."

"It's all very strange," whispered Everychild. "And the one with the red nose?" he asked finally.

"Mr. Policeman. He isn't really as bad as the rest of them. All he does is hit you over the head with a club and turn you over to the lady—to her with the bandage that's always slipping off."

There was a silence, and then Everychild remarked: "Still, it's not plain why they're all sitting around here where your—your mother . . ."

"It's just a pose," said the giant. "What I can't understand is why my mother doesn't denounce them all. They do no end of harm. And it was they who drove me away from her long ago. They said I was a dangerous character, and they all conspired to ruin me. They gave me a bad name, so that everybody was willing to give me a kick in passing—all save a few gentle hermits and shepherds and persons like that. And now—now I truly fear they've got my mother locked up in her temple, so that she's helpless. That's what we've got to do: we've got to get her out. Even if we have to break down the doors. Though of course they'll all try to destroy us if they know what we're about."

For the moment Everychild forgot the sword he carried—which the Masked Lady had given him—and forgot also what the Masked Lady had said to him about a door which would not open save in the presence of that sword. He said nervously, "Hadn't we better go away and come back some other time?"

But his companion replied resolutely, "I shall not go away. I shall wait until they are all asleep—or perhaps until she opens the door and appears."

One more question entered Everychild's mind. "But if they all hate you so," he said, "why do they all sit there now as if they did not care?"

"I doubt if they recognize me," explained the giant. "It's been so long since they saw me. They probably think we're mere idle travelers. You know there are many such; and few of them really try to enter the temple."

And so they stood and waited, and the devotees continued to nod like mandarins. It seemed indeed that they would never go to sleep. And it came to pass at last that the giant could no longer restrain himself. To be within reach of his lost mother, and not to be able to speak to her—it was too much!

He began to advance silently, leaving Everychild where he stood. He proceeded, step by step, in the direction of the temple. And it began to seem that he might reach the temple door without being seen.

Indeed, he actually did so. He laid his hand on the door of the temple. The door would not open! But instead, something quite dreadful happened.

In the back row of devotees sat one whom the giant had not yet seen. It was Mr. Literal, seated on a pedestal marked with his name.

This person started up with a scream of fury. He had recognized the giant.

"Up!" he cried to his fellow-devotees. "The evil son has returned. Up, all of you, and defend the temple!"

The others were all thoroughly aroused. They turned their eyes toward the temple and perceived the giant standing at the very door!

They sprang toward him with great fury. They quickly surrounded him. It seemed that he must really perish before their wrath. And then—then what happened?

Everychild could not stand idle and see his friend perish. He bethought him of the sword the Masked Lady had given him. He drew the sword quickly and with a loud cry he dashed toward the temple steps.

He gained the side of the giant; and then—what is this? The devotees all turned to cowering wretches! They put forth their elbows to ward off imaginary blows. They slunk back like base cowards.

They had seen the sword in Everychild's hand, and they had recognized it!

Moreover, before the gleam of that sword the temple door swung open.

The giant dashed into the temple to greet his mother. He became for an instant invisible. The devotees were now slinking back to a safe distance. Everychild, without ever lowering his sword, smote them all with his glance of scorn.

And then the giant reappeared. But oh, what a change had taken place in him! He held his hands aloft in an agony of despair. He staggered down the temple steps, followed by the wondering Everychild.

"What is it?" asked Everychild in distress. "What ails you?"

They were drawing away from the temple now, and the devotees were thronging back to the open door. They surrounded it, closing it with frenzied hands.

The giant drew apart, giving no explanation to Everychild just at first. But standing alone and heart-broken he lifted his hands high.

"She is gone!" he cried in a hoarse, agonized whisper.

The devotees lifted their voices in a triumphant chorus—

"She is within!"

But the giant, his hands hanging limp now, and his eyes staring into vacancy, repeated in the same hoarse voice:

"She is gone!"



CHAPTER XXVII

HOW EVIL DAYS CAME UPON THE CASTLE

As they left the temple behind them, on their return journey, Everychild could not help thinking that it was a very good thing to have found that the giant's mother was not in the temple. To his way of looking at it, this argued that she had escaped from the terrible creatures who surrounded the temple. And if so, why should they not hope to find her elsewhere?

But when at length he suggested this to his companion, the giant only replied, scarcely above a whisper, "I fear she has been slain."

And so Everychild walked by the giant's side, glancing at him anxiously from time to time, and seeing despair written so plainly on his countenance that he did not venture to utter another word.

When they approached the great entrance to the castle there was hurried running to and fro on the ramparts, about the doors and windows, and in the halls. Eager eyes looked down from the watch-tower. But soon all eagerness changed to alarm. They could all see that the giant had been smitten dreadfully: that the proud yet kindly head had been brought low.

Silence reigned in the great reception hall when the giant entered. His friends all waited for him to speak, to relate the tale of his adventure. Many eyes rested upon him curiously, yet pityingly. And when Everychild, following the giant into the hall, placed a warning finger on his lip, the wonder grew and deepened to consternation.

For an instant the giant stood among them, his trembling hands clasping his head. He saw none of his friends. Then he suddenly tottered. He would have fallen had not certain of the king's courtiers sprang to his aid. They helped him to a chair; and there he sat with lowered eyes like one who would never lift his head again.

The physician was sent for in haste. He came and looked down upon the giant. He questioned him, but received no reply.

Then he looked upon those who surrounded him and touched his own forehead significantly. "The malady is here," he said. "This is no case for herbs and cordials."

They put the giant to bed and sent for the greatest physicians in the kingdom, including those who were skilled in ministering to the afflictions of the mind. There were muttered conferences and all the pomp which even the most cunning doctors knew how to exercise. Later there were bickerings and words of scorn and hatred among the healers. But it seemed they could not agree upon a remedy. One suggested this, the other urged that; but the giant remained indifferent to it all—unconscious of it all. And his condition was not bettered in the least. On the contrary, he sank deeper and deeper into the despondent mood which held him.

The others discussed his strange affliction. It seemed that many of them had known of the giant's great longing to find his mother again. For days and days he had been quitting the castle early in the morning and going upon far and dangerous journeys in the hope of finding her. He had seemed quite confident of finding her. No wonder that he should be smitten hard, now that he had been obliged to abandon his search.

At last a new, alarming report spread through the castle: the giant was no longer remaining silent, but was addressing all who came within hearing of him. But he was speaking only evil and false words. He was depicting the whole world as a place of shame and cruelties. He was painting everything black.

Everychild listened to him speaking in this strain on one occasion, and the effect upon him was unbelievable. Everything seemed different to him. The golden furniture in the finest room in the castle no longer seemed to be of gold. It was merely painted yellow, he thought. Even the Sleeping Beauty seemed changed in his eyes. Her face did not seem so perfect, after all! There were moments when she seemed even commonplace, not to say dreadfully old-fashioned. He fought against this state of mind, but all in vain.

Seeing how things were going, the physicians urged that the giant's friends be prevented from seeing him any more. They were even for removing him to the castle dungeons and confining him. But so great was the outcry against this extreme measure that if was not carried out.

Nevertheless, as one day after another passed, it was plain that something must be done. The giant's voice could be heard far and near, uttering evil words and pretending that things were quite unlike what they really were. And all this had an effect upon all his former companions.

Cinderella was heard to say with a fearful sigh: "I am sure the prince of the crystal slipper will never find me. It is absurd to suppose so!"

Hansel was heard to say, "Oh, yes, I get enough to eat now: but who knows how soon I shall be required to go without eating?"

Grettel said, "It's all very well, but no one can tell me we'll come to any good in this place surrounded by a forest in which there may be all kinds of monsters!"

Tom Hubbard maintained that his little black dog had never had so many fleas since the day he was born, and that it was all the fault of the old castle.

Little Bo-Peep and Little Boy Blue were seen to weep together and to confide in each other the fear that they would some day have to return to the folds to find that the wolves had become much larger and more ferocious than they had even been before.

Even the gentle Prince Arthur became moody and remarked to Everychild on one occasion, "There's always a good deal of visiting among kings, and we may expect some one to see me here sooner or later and carry word to King John. And then there will be no further liberty for me."

For the time being everybody forgot all about the Masked Lady, who sat alone much of the time, and regarded this person or that with steadfast eyes through her mask.

To speak quite plainly, the Masked Lady had been putting off to the last possible moment a step from which she could not help but shrink.

The time had come for Everychild to take that dread journey to the Mountain of Reality. She had given him as many days of grace as she could possibly permit. And at last she said solemnly:

"It shall be to-morrow."



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE MOUNTAIN OF REALITY

The next day the giant, standing out on the rampart where every one could see and hear him, was shouting—"The world is full of evil! The world is full of evil!" And his friends thought sadly of that day, now only a little while ago, when it had been his wont to say that the world was full of good—that, indeed, everything was good if you looked at it in the right way. But suddenly he stopped shouting and lifted his head.

It was the first time he had been seen to lift his head in a number of days, and it seemed very good to see him do this. He seemed to be listening intently, and also with a certain faint, dawning hope.

At the very same time Everychild lifted his head also and listened, but as he did so he clasped his hands with dread.

And also Prince Arthur and Cinderella and Hansel and Grettel and the other children lifted their heads and listened.

They had all heard some one playing on a pipe; and the sound, though distant, was very mysterious. It drifted up from the forest road. The notes continued to be heard, one by one, in the same strange, fascinating way.

It was the giant who first began to move in the direction of the sound of the pipe. He did this at first as though reluctantly; but as he continued on his way he began to walk more alertly, and presently he seemed very eager.

And then Everychild found it impossible to withstand that sound and he too moved away in the direction from which the notes of the pipe came. And the Sleeping Beauty, with a dreamy smile on her lips, walked with him; and Cinderella followed a few steps behind. And then the others, one by one, fell into line: Hansel and Grettel, the sons and daughters of the Old Woman who lived in the shoe, Prince Arthur, Little Bo-Peep, Little Boy Blue, and last of all, Tom Hubbard and the little black dog.

They all marched down the mountain road, away from the castle; and presently they began to catch glimpses of a figure in the distance, moving on before them elusively, and leaving behind a trail of enchanting notes.

They turned into the Road of Troubled Children, and far away they marched. Far away they marched, but the figure on ahead still eluded them—save that they heard the notes of the pipe clearer and more sweet and strange.

But at last the figure that led the way could be seen more clearly, and Everychild murmured to himself; "It is the Pied Piper!" And when this thought had occurred to him he could scarcely repress his excitement.

The figure in the road before them had now halted, though the dulcet notes went on and on. It was a truly fascinating person, to say the least—with a quaint costume, including a funny cap. But presently Everychild, coming closer to the piper, drew in his breath shortly.

The player on the pipes was the Masked Lady! She might have been thought to be dreaming as she lifted and lowered her beautiful fingers where the openings in the pipe were and went on playing. Occasionally she glanced back to make sure that the children were all there.

And then something very strange occurred. The ranks of children were augmented by other children. Along the road they came dreamily and took their places in the procession. They were Little Red Riding-Hood and the Babes in the Wood (the latter brushing withered leaves from their garments) and other children whose stories are known to be sad ones. And there was Aladdin again!—carrying his lamp, and smiling a little mischievously.

Then the Masked Lady, in the guise of the Pied Piper, resumed her march, facing straight ahead, and moving with grace and majesty. And the entire procession began to move.

The children scarcely gave a thought to where they were going. Nor did they give a thought to going back. They were moved by a power which they did not understand to keep step with the music of the pipe.

On and on they marched—on and on. They passed through silent forests and across beautiful plains, up gentle hills and through sheltered fells. And the melody of the piper became so strongly accented that they could not help keeping step, even if they had wished not to do so.

At last, however, they came to where there was a great dark mountain ahead; and Everychild thought to himself, "Now we shall have to turn back, since it would be too much for us to ascend that high mountain."

But the Masked Lady continued to march straight toward that dark mountain—which was, as she well knew, the fearful Mountain of Reality.

The other children all beheld the mountain and they looked at one another with questioning eyes, as if each were asking the other, "Do you not consider it a terrible mountain?" Still, they never ceased to keep step with the music.

They could see the mountain clearly now. It was cold and bleak and rose into the mists of the sky. There were great chasms in its sides, and precipitous heights and walls which it would have seemed impossible to scale. It seemed of a frightful hardness, too.

Most terrible of all, wild hunters were to be seen all the way up to the summit, and terrible beasts; and also one could catch a glimpse of solitary individuals who were climbing to the highest visible points, and some of these were falling back and hurting themselves terribly.

"We cannot advance another step," thought Everychild; for now they were indeed at the very base of the mountain.

And then a miracle occurred, just when it seemed that the Masked Lady would be compelled to turn back.

The mountain opened! There was a cavity as large as an immense archway. Through this the Masked Lady advanced; and then the entire band of children marched straight into the heart of the mountain.

Everychild, looking back, perceived that the mountain had closed again after the last child had entered, so that they were now all prisoners!

That was indeed a dreadful moment; for the heart of the Mountain of Reality was a great gloomy cavern in which everything seemed quite terrible. Nor would there have seemed any way of escaping from the place. The light was but dim, so that objects were only obscurely revealed. But it could be seen that the top of the cavern was very high, while the walls were steep and formidable.

A weird sound arose. The high walls echoed it, the dark ceiling flung it back. It went trembling into far places and returned, shattered yet with its weird quality unabated.

It was the children weeping!

It seemed their hearts would break, because of the dreary place into which they had been brought. And during this time the Masked Lady only stood and looked upon the children silently.

Everychild could scarcely believe his own eyes, and he began a more careful examination of the cavern.

He came upon water in half-hidden pools. "But," he reflected, "we could not drink of this water if we were thirsty. It is quite black."

He examined the paths which led from one place to another. "We could not walk in these paths," he mused, "because they are too rough."

He examined the natural stairways which led to the upper chambers of the cavern. "But we could not climb those stairways," he decided, "since they are too steep."

He came upon beds which had been spread for himself and his companions. "We could not sleep in these," was his conclusion, "because they are too hard."

And as he continued his examination he became aware that he was standing close to Will o'Dreams; and something in his friend's manner caused him to pause and observe him more closely.

Because of the fulness of his heart he put forth a hand and touched his friend's arm. The arm trembled. And then the sad truth became known. The scenes he had been called upon to witness here in the cavern had been too much for Will o'Dreams. He had been stricken with blindness!

It did not seem strange to Everychild that he should wish to run immediately and tell the Masked Lady of what had befallen the giant. Surely he must have felt a certain confidence in her, after all!

But when she had been informed of the giant's plight she only said, "Let us be patient."

And then she began to speak to all the children, calling their attention to this matter or that. "Do not be afraid to drink of the water," she said. "It seems black. That is only because it is deep."

And drinking of the water, they found it to be sweet and refreshing.

"Do not hold back from wandering in the paths," she added. "Your feet will take them easily."

And wandering in the paths they found that they were not so rough as they had imagined them.

"Do not falter if you wish to climb the stairways," she continued. "Only try them."

And they tried them, and found that their limbs responded joyously to the effort they were putting forth.

"Do not shrink from sleeping in the beds which have been provided," she said at last. "They may surprise you."

And lying down in the beds which had seemed so uninviting, the children were wooed to slumber. They were really comfortable beds, after all!

Strangest of all was the fact that Will o'Dreams went about with the other children, guided by the sound of their voices, and by an occasional touch of Everychild's hand; and one after another he tested the pool and the paths and the stairs and the beds.

"Ah, how good it is to have them!" he said at last with a great sigh; and soon after he had sunk into deep and refreshing slumber.

Nor were the others long in following his example. They had traveled far; and it seemed good to rest now, especially as they believed they might look forward to happy and wonderful experiences on the morrow.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE MASKED LADY'S SECRET

Toward morning Everychild had a dream. In his dream his mother came and stood near him, and looked at him wonderingly and sadly. And then—in the dream—his father could be seen, standing apart and slowly shaking his head.

It seemed that there was a cry of joy in his throat, and that he ran to embrace his mother. He felt that he should weep for joy when he flung his arms about her neck and felt her face touching his.

But then he awoke, and his parents were not there: but only the great chamber in the heart of the mountain, and all the other children rising from their beds, eager to begin a new day.

He could not rid his mind of the vivid dream, nor his heart of the strange softness it had brought. And as soon as he could do so he sought the Masked Lady, his intention being to inquire of her what his dream had meant.

She stood waiting for him, as it seemed, and he approached her with increasing eagerness. And now he perceived that she was no longer wearing the dress of a piper, but had on the soft white dress in which he had first beheld her, and wore a jewel in her hair.

He had the strange thought that she might be really beautiful if only she would remove the mask which gave her face that distant expression and almost hid her eyes. And he remembered, all of a sudden, how he had often been helped by her, and how she had always been near, as if she wished to help him even more, and how she had comforted him that night when he had seen a star fall by assuring him that he was a little bit of God.

He began speaking to her with a new feeling of constraint. "I dreamed of seeing my mother and father last night," he said.

She smiled faintly. "I know," she replied. "All the other children had the same dream. That is what all children dream of here in this chamber."

He opened his eyes very wide. How could she know what all the other children had dreamed, since it did not appear that they had told her of their dreams? But he continued: "They seemed a little sad," he said. "My mother's eyes were troubled, and my father shook his head."

"Yes, Everychild?"

"And I wondered if I might not see them again, really. It would be good to see them again; and you know I have come so far . . ."

The Masked Lady replied: "Nothing delights me so much as to have children and their parents find each other. That is my highest dream—to bring together the parents and children who have lost each other."

"And shall I find them?"

"I think you are on the way even now to find them—perhaps sooner than you dare to hope."

"If I could find them now," continued Everychild, "I think I could willingly give up my search for—for the truth. It seemed a wonderful thing to seek for when I began, but I am not anxious to do so any more."

There was a new note in her voice as she replied, "Truth is very close to those who still seek, but who have ceased to be anxious."

He did not know why the words should have thrilled him so. If he could find the truth, after all, and still have his parents again! He permitted his eyes to rest on the Masked Lady's rather forbidding face. And then he began impulsively—"Dear lady! . . ."

"Yes, Everychild?" she returned gently.

He sought eagerly for the right words. "I did not know it myself for a long time," he said, "But I think I know now . . ."

"I am waiting, Everychild!"

His voice almost failed him. "There was such a long time that I thought I feared you a little," he continued, "—when it seemed better to stand quite apart from you and look at you from a distance. But you've been so good a friend that now at last . . ."

"At last, Everychild?"

He timidly sought her hand; and having found it he stood with downcast eyes. "At last I know I—I love you!"

Still standing with downcast eyes he could not know how radiantly she appeared before him. He could not see how the mask fell from her face at last. The Masked Lady no more, but Truth herself in all her glory!

She cried out triumphantly, "Lift up your eyes, Everychild, and look at me!"

He lifted his eyes slowly, gaining courage little by little. And when he looked upon her an expression of amazement and swiftly dawning delight was in his eyes.

"You are—oh, it is you!" he cried, fearing even yet to name her.

"It is I," she said.

And he was not fearful of her now. Truth at last—and yet she was one who had been near him a long time and had often aided him.

"But you are beautiful!" he cried at last in wonder and delight.

"I am always beautiful to those who love me," she said.

"But oh, dear lady," he cried, "could you not have helped me to know you in the beginning?"

"Ah," she replied, "each soul must find me for itself."

Then she put her arm about him and comforted him for long days and nights of wandering.

They were interrupted soon by the other children who came forward eagerly. They too had come to tell their dream; and Everychild watched joyously while Truth—to him the Masked Lady no more—reassured them by saying that even now they were on their way to find their parents. And the children gathered together in groups and agreed that they all wished very much to see their parents again.

And then Everychild listened attentively while Truth declared to the assembled band: "If you would really find your parents again, and be happy with them, you must promise one thing only: that you will love them better than you love yourselves."

And all the children, having forgotten many of the hardships they had undergone at home, replied almost in one voice—

"We promise!"

Then after they had remained silent a little while, wondering how they were to find their parents, from whom they had wandered so far, they began to inquire how so difficult a thing could be brought about; and they were informed that it was true that one great obstacle still lay in the way of their return to their parents, but that perhaps it would be possible to remove that obstacle.

They drew apart, whispering among themselves and looking beamingly into one another's faces.

They were startled suddenly by a great voice, crying out in anguish—

"Lady—dear lady!"

It was the giant, who had remained apart a little because of his blindness. He was now approaching Truth, his hands outstretched.

"I am here," she said. And he came and knelt by her side.



CHAPTER XXX

WILL O'DREAMS MAKES A DISCOVERY

For a moment the giant remained silent, his heart so torn by doubt and fear that he could not speak. But at length he said: "I have heard how you would restore the children to their parents . . ."

"I hope to do so," replied Truth.

He cried out in sorrow, "Yet none may restore me to my mother, whom I have lost."

"Be not so sure of that!" she said.

Whereupon hope was kindled in his heart. He pondered, feeling that he was in the presence of one who was very wise and kind. And then he said:

"And I have heard Everychild say that you are beautiful."

She did not reply to this. She waited for him to continue.

"You will forgive me for speaking what is in my heart," he said at length, "But my own mother, from whom I was driven by cruel, stupid persons long ago, was very beautiful. And I have always dreamed that some day I should encounter a beautiful lady and that she should prove to be the mother I lost."

She replied to him in a low voice: "And by what sign or token should you recognize her, if you were to encounter her again after all these years?"

"Alas, what hope is there for me, now that I am blind? While I could yet see I hoped to know her by her calm glance, by the serenity that never was troubled by any evil chance . . . I cannot say; but I never would believe that I should not be helped to recognize her."

She meditated a little. And presently she said, as she leaned closer to him, "And did you never give her anything—a token, perhaps—that she might have treasured and kept, by which you might recognize her?"

"I give her anything?" he exclaimed incredulously. "It was she who gave, not I. What was there I could have given her? And yet . . . I remember once when I was a child I brought her a pretty trifle, and her eyes grew bright and she drew me to her and laid her cheek against my hair. And there were other things—but they were only trifles, after all."

"Trifles?" she echoed passionately, "trifles?"

He began, "There was——" And then he broke off. "I am ashamed to say," he said. "It was nothing."

She reflected earnestly. And at length she said, with new eagerness in her voice, "But if you ever find your mother, and fail to know her, and she shall tell you what those trifles were—you shall know that it is she. Is it not so?"

"It is true," he said.

A rapturous smile began to illumine her face. "Trifles, dear child!" she cried. "Should you call them trifles?—One was the first song ever sung; and one was the first tale ever told——"

She paused, because he had clasped his hands together in ecstacy and seemed almost to cease to breathe.

"And one," she continued, "was the first picture; and one——" Her voice became all but inaudible, "—one was the first prayer."

His voice arose in a great shout of triumph. "You are she!" he cried "You are indeed she!"

And he reached forth and clasped her in his arms. At last they were united again.



CHAPTER XXXI

HOW ALADDIN MADE A WISH

And now the time had come for Truth to determine whether, indeed, the children might be reunited with their parents—for there yet remained the need of exacting a pledge from the parents themselves.

But the parents were far away and in many places, and it must needs be a difficult task to consult them all to learn if they were ready to enter upon a just and binding covenant.

Everychild drew near, after Truth and the giant had been reunited, in the hope of being able to help in the next great step which lay before them. However, there was something else to be attended to first: There was the pleasant duty of congratulating the giant, not only upon being reunited with his mother, but also upon having regained his sight. For it was now apparent that a great happiness, following after a period of dark distress, had enabled Will o'Dreams to see again perfectly!

After this unexpected consummation had been gratefully discussed, there was much to say about the great reunion which they all had at heart.

Everychild was of the opinion that it might prove all but impossible to retrace their steps over the way they had come. And the other children, one after another, agreed that it was too much to hope that they might find their way back over the devious paths by which they had come.

It was then that they were all aware that one of their number had remained apart and was now regarding them almost piteously.

It was Aladdin!—Aladdin, holding his accursed lamp to his bosom, and gazing at them with beseeching eyes.

Everychild called to him to join them; and as Aladdin came up he said, "And so, Aladdin, you still have your lamp. And that means, of course, that you have not yet wished for the best thing of all."

"Alas, no," replied Aladdin.

Everychild continued: "We are anxious to find our parents again, but we were thinking how difficult this would be, because they are in many places, and far away."

"Nothing could be simpler," declared Aladdin; and he held forth his lamp and regarded it with a grim smile.

Everychild leaned forward with great eagerness. "Tell me what you would do," he said.

"I would make a wish," said Aladdin, "that here and now, all the troubled children and their parents might be forever united."

The children were all nearly spellbound. Could such a strange wish be made successfully? They marveled, yet they were scarcely incredulous. They came in an awed silence and formed an audience before Aladdin, even the little black dog coming and sitting up before a group of children where he could see everything that took place.

There was a solemn silence at last. Everychild's eyes were filled with a kind of fearful rapture. But Aladdin's confidence was unshaken. He smiled a little mockingly, as if he were greatly enjoying the solemn situation.

The great test began. Aladdin rubbed his lamp before the eyes of all, so that they could see precisely what took place.

There was one brief interruption when Hansel's voice could be heard in an impatient whisper bidding Grettel refrain from moving her head so that he could not see. But silence was immediately restored.

Again Aladdin rubbed his lamp, and smiled upon his audience almost tauntingly.

A third time he rubbed his lamp, this time with a stern, expectant expression in his eyes.

There was a rumbling sound; it seemed to grow almost dark. And then a genie appeared. The genie made a low salaam and awaited instructions.

Said Aladdin, "I wish that here and now all the troubled children and their parents may be forever united. Conduct us to the Hall of Parents, and assemble the mothers and fathers!"

The genie disappeared.

An instant later—wonder of wonders! There were echoing noises at one end of the great chamber. What had seemed to be a wall of stone proved to consist of scores of great gates, standing tier upon tier. And the gates began to open and fold back. One after another they opened and folded back, revealing an immense, brilliantly-lighted space of incomparable grandeur.

It was the Hall of Parents!



CHAPTER XXXII

THE HALL OF PARENTS

The children arose and stood in their places breathlessly when that scene was revealed to them. Never had they seen such bright lights, so high a ceiling, so many splendid decorations.

There was not a single parent in sight, it is true; but this did not disturb their joy, since it was plain that any number of parents might be near by, waiting for a wand to be waved, or a wish to be made.

On the far side of the Hall there was a great semicircle of painted curtains, like those in a theater, with only narrow spaces between them. On these curtains were painted scenes and figures of men and women. Above each curtain a pennon was flying.

From some invisible place strains of music floated, and the music was of the kind which does not make the heart either heavy or light, but simply tender.

The children began to advance into the Hall of Parents, gazing with wondering eyes at the painted curtains, which held for them a strange fascination. As they drew nearer they perceived that in the middle of the semi-circle of curtains there was an opening, with soft draperies before it, as if it were here that the parents would presently enter.

Then the pictures on the curtains began to become clear, and there were cries of joy and amazement from the children. One picture showed the mother and father of Everychild. The mother sat at a table, her face buried on her arms. The father stood helplessly beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

Another picture showed the wicked King John of England sitting gloomily on his throne.

Another showed the mother and sisters of Cinderella seated before a fireplace, silent and forlorn. Near them, and gazing at them challengingly, was the figure of a gallant young man with a crystal slipper of great delicacy in his hand.

Another showed the parents of Hansel and Grettel, the father clasping a loaf of bread to him and gazing abstractedly before him.

Another showed Old Mother Hubbard standing before a cupboard and looking into it intently.

Another showed the unique residence of the Old Woman who lived in a shoe, with the Old Woman herself standing dejectedly near the gaping opening in the toe.

Others showed certain not easily recognizable ladies and gentlemen: perhaps the parents of Little Bo-Peep and Little Boy Blue and others.

And high above all these homely pictures, which were exaggerated just enough to be really fascinating—like the pictures at the side-show of the circus—fluttered the soft pennons.

The curtains themselves wavered deliciously, so that you could guess something was going on behind them. The music which made your heart tender never ceased to flow from its invisible place.

Closer and closer the children pressed, still scarcely daring to breathe, and feeling certain that their parents would not be much longer withheld from them. They were becoming more and more eager. Even the little black dog manifested the greatest excitement.

And at last Truth stepped forward purposefully and took her place just in advance of the band of children. She had never seemed more impressive. Her white dress gleamed in the bright light, and the gem in her hair was of every color one could imagine.

She began to speak.

"I very seldom make a speech," she said. "Scarcely once in a hundred years do I make a speech in public. But if you will bear with words for once, instead of deeds—upon my assurance that deeds shall immediately follow—I have this to say to you:

"It is a very great thing when children find their parents again after losing them; but the last good of all, and perhaps the greatest, is when parents find their children whom they have lost.

"You who have assembled here have found your parents at last. This I know, not because you have come here into their presence—for you must know they are behind yonder painted curtains, which we shall presently lift—but because you have learned to know the need of them, and because you have come in very truth to love them.

"We shall see now if your parents have found you."

The children caught at that saying, which seemed wholly obscure to them, and wondered what meaning could lie behind it. But in the meantime Truth had turned toward the curtains. She gazed at them one after another in an intense manner, and finally she stepped close to the one whereon the likeness of the Old Woman who lived in a shoe was painted.

In a commanding voice she cried out, "Old Woman who lived in a shoe, appear!"

The curtain moved; it was thrust forward a little at one side, and the Old Woman who lived in a shoe stepped out!

To her Truth spoke calmly yet with a certain majesty. "I have come," said she, "to restore your children to you, to be yours forever—but on one condition."

The Old Woman lifted her sad eyes and gazed in amazement at Truth. "To think," she blurted out, "that they should have run up against the like of you! How may I have them again to keep? Speak—there's a good soul!"

The reply came in a ringing tone: "You must promise to love your children better than you love yourself."

"I do—oh, I do!" cried the Old Woman, the tears starting to her eyes.

What happened then? At a sign from Truth the children went spinning toward the Old Woman. She drew the curtain out a little so that they could slip into the hidden space behind it. One after another they eagerly disappeared, and then she followed them.

When they had all disappeared, Truth moved along to the next curtain, on which a portrait of Old Mother Hubbard was painted. She called out commandingly, "Old Mother Hubbard, appear!"

As in the former case, the curtain was pushed out at one side, and you could tell that some one was coming. Old Mother Hubbard appeared!

To her Truth said: "Your greatest unkindness to your son was your unkindness to his dog. If you would have your son again, you must promise to love him better than you love yourself—and I advise you first of all to think kindly of the dog that was his friend."

She had scarcely finished speaking when Old Mother Hubbard cried out in broken tones:

"Give me his dog!"

The little black dog bounded joyously toward her, followed by her son Tom. They were shown into the place behind the curtain. Old Mother Hubbard following them with the greatest haste.

They could be seen no more.

But Truth was already speaking again in clear tones: "Father and mother of Hansel and Grettel, appear!"

And the father and mother of Hansel and Grettel appeared from behind their curtain, and stood hand in hand, with downcast eyes.

Said Truth to them: "The father and mother who would not share their last loaf of bread with their children—nay, who would not deny themselves that their children need not go supperless to bed—deserve not the love of children. They love themselves overmuch. But if at last in your hearts——"

The mother of Hansel and Grettel could not wait for the end of the sentence. She turned stormily to her husband. "It was you who persuaded me to do it—to lose the poor little things," said she.

The father retorted promptly, "It was that you, good wife, might not starve that I consented to lose the children in the wood!"

But Truth interposed: "It is not a time now to fix the blame, but to make amends. Come, mother and father of Hansel and Grettel: can you promise that hereafter you will love your children better than you love yourselves?"

It was the father who replied, speaking in earnest tones: "Gladly shall we deny ourselves hereafter, if need be, that our children may have bread; and in all other ways we shall strive to show them that we love them better than we love ourselves." To which the wife nodded once for each word.

Whereupon Hansel and Grettel ran swiftly to their parents, who made a way for them to pass behind the curtain, and they all disappeared.

And now Truth was crying out, "Mother of Cinderella, appear!"

Not only Cinderella's mother, but her sisters too (their curiosity aroused to the topmost pitch) appeared before their curtain.

Said Truth, addressing the mother: "She whom the crystal slipper fits—and well do you know her name—will return to you, forgiving and forgetting all, if you will promise to love her better than you love yourself."

"Ah," replied Cinderella's mother, "I've done that this long while, I think—but how was I to let her know? Let her come to me this instant and she shall never have cause to complain again!"

Then Cinderella approached her mother and received a kiss; and then her mother led her solicitously into the space behind the curtain, the two sisters following with awe-stricken faces.

For the first time now Truth faltered as if she had no heart for the next task she had to perform. She was standing before the curtain on which the likeness of the cruel King John was painted. And at last she cried out:

"John, King of England, appear!"

There was a pause—and then an echo of sound. The curtain trembled; it was pressed forward at one side. Slowly and with awful majesty King John appeared. His crown was on his head, his kingly robe of ermine fell from his shoulders, there was a kingly staff in his hand. His eyes were like a storm-cloud, his brow like thunder.

It was now that Truth spoke more impressively than she had done before, saying,—

"And you—it is true that you were not Prince Arthur's father, but only his guardian. And yet it may be you would atone for your crimes against the poor fatherless prince. Come, Sire—this boy who knew no father save you: if I give him back into your keeping can you promise to love him better than you love yourself?"

The king frowned more darkly. "Better than I love myself!" he said incredulously. "Can a king love any one better than he loves himself?"

Truth continued: "I cannot read the heart of kings. It is for you, Sire, to speak. I know not what a king's highest vision may be; but I know no man should have power over another, save it be the power of self-sacrificing love. I await your answer—and the prince waits."

But the king repeated, musingly and darkly—"Can a king love any one better than he loves himself?"

There was a moment of suspense; and then Truth would have moved on; but at the last instant the king cried out, "Stay a moment—I command you!" Twice he tried to speak; and then he said: "That little prince, so helpless and beautiful! You need not think that I have not repented me of my sins toward him. In the dark nights the winds have brought me back the echo of his sighs; and by day I have seen in every ray of sunlight the gleam of his hair, and in the blue sky the beaming eyes of him. Perhaps if I might try again, though he stood in my way . . . if you would send him hither . . ."

But he had not promised, and though Prince Arthur waited, ready to go to him, Truth did not give the signal.

The king was frowning mightily and saying to himself, "Can a king love any one better than he loves himself? Nay, that could not be!"

In a nervous, slinking manner, he drew back behind his curtain.

Prince Arthur drew his cloak about him more closely, as if he were cold. Then with an air almost spectral, yet very sad, he drew further and further away, always keeping his eyes upon the picture of the king.

He came to the folded hangings which opened no one knew whither. He parted them and passed out. While his hand still clung to the hangings there came a flash of lightning which revealed the chaos of nothingness without. Thunder rumbled. Then the hangings fell back into place and the prince was seen no more.

So it went on until all the children had been restored to their parents—all save Everychild. And now Truth paused before the curtain whereon the likeness of Everychild's parents was painted.

"Parents of Everychild, appear!" she cried.

They came, subdued, saddened, hand in hand. And Truth addressed them.

"Parents of Everychild," she said, "I need not tell you now why Everychild is lost to those who should be nearest to him. You have learned that coldness and neglect toward those who have a right to look to you for love and good will is the one sin for which punishment is most inevitable. But so long as the world stands Everychild shall not forget his father and mother; and at last he comes to take you into his heart to cherish you for ever and ever. Will you—but ah, I need not ask! I know that at last the parents of Everychild, tried by suffering and time, love him better—oh, far better—than they love themselves."

To which the parents of Everychild cried out, "We do—we do, indeed!"

Then Everychild gave his hand to the Sleeping Beauty, who seemed a bit overawed by all that was transpiring, and led her toward his parents. They stood with outstretched hands. And immediately they passed with the utmost happiness behind their curtain.

They had all disappeared now—yet no, Aladdin and Will o'Dreams remained.

Aladdin had been sitting apart, watching everything that took place. He had kept quite out of the way. Now he arose leisurely and moved toward those hangings through which Prince Arthur had disappeared. He meant to join Prince Arthur!

But just before he disappeared he turned about. A blissful smile was on his lips. He held his hands high.

His lamp was gone!

He passed from sight. He could be heard singing dreamily, "Tla-la-la . . . tla-la-la . . ." His voice died away.

Now Truth remained all alone save that her son, Will o'Dreams, remained gazing at her happily.

But suddenly she perceived an intruder near her. For the last time, Mr. Literal was there beside her. He was smiling smugly and tetering back and forth on his feet. "You seem very well satisfied with yourself," he said with a sneer.

She only turned toward him serenely.

"Yet all the same," continued Mr. Literal, "the story is full of meaningless things and inconsistencies."

"Do you think so?" she returned.

"Of course. Take those unhappy pictures of childhood, for example. You don't mean to argue really that Everychild is treated unkindly?"

She replied thoughtfully, "I fear that Everychild is sometimes treated unkindly."

He seemed to weigh this point and to remain unconvinced. He moved more confidently to the next point. "At least," he said, "you'll scarcely contend that Everychild marries the Sleeping Beauty?"

She replied with assurance: "Everychild marries a Sleeping Beauty. To him she is beautiful, and she is asleep until he comes."

Mr. Literal lost patience. "Very well," he said, "but you know it's true that Imagination—I believe he calls himself Will o'Dreams—is not a giant as he's been represented here."

She replied calmly, "The greatest giant of all: the forerunner of every dream, of every deed!"

But Mr. Literal had reserved his most crushing argument for the last. "Well," said he, "it is certainly not true that Everychild has a little dog for a companion!"

And now for an instant Truth seemed really confused. But after faltering a moment she overcame her confusion. She smiled and beamed with real good will. "Perhaps not," said she, "but ah, Everychild should have!"

But Mr. Literal was not to be conciliated. "And as for your not having a mask on any more, as Everychild would have it, that's nonsense. It's there, just the same as ever."

"To you—yes, I know," she replied.

"To every one!" he exclaimed irritably. "I'll leave it to the world."

"Let us see," she said; and she turned to her son, Will o'Dreams, with a significant smile.

It seemed that he understood; for he faced the painted curtains with sudden purposefulness. He held his arms aloft—and all the curtains began to ascend. The result was almost bewildering.

In one place was the great shoe, just as we have seen it before, and all about it were the Old Woman's sons and daughters, seemingly the happiest children in the world. Their mother was smiling contentedly.

In another place there was the interior of Old Mother Hubbard's cottage, with the little black dog just receiving a fine morsel, and with Tom and his mother looking on with great joy.

In another there was a mean cottage interior—the home of Hansel and Grettel—with the parents holding their son and daughter close to them.

In another was the dreadful King John, pondering moodily on his throne.

In another there was the kitchen of Cinderella's house, with Cinderella holding her skirt back and looking in ecstacy at two perfect crystal slippers on her feet, while her mother and sisters and a perfectly fascinating prince looked on with rapture.

In another there was Everychild, being held close to his mother's side, while the father stood apart, his hands in his trousers pockets and a complacent smile on his lips. There was the lamp shade with the red beads, and the clock like a state capitol, and everything.

As the curtains went up the persons in the various groups looked out upon Truth, who asked in a perfectly assured tone:

"Good people, tell me: am I wearing a mask?"

Let me close my tale by leaving the answer to you, dear reader.

What is your decision?

Does she wear a mask?

THE END