wonderingly.

They came before long to an old house with all the blinds drawn save at
one window, through which the beams of a lamp shone dimly.

Mr. Literal opened the front door, which creaked angrily. He lighted a
hall lamp so that he and the giant might find their way up a flight of
stairs in safety. A musty odor filled the giant's nostrils, causing
him to wrinkle his nose slightly. But he said nothing.

Up the stairway they proceeded, and into a study. It was in this room
that a lamp had been left burning.

Mr. Literal approached a table and drew forth two chairs. "Sit down,"
he said, still without looking at the giant. And Will o'Dreams seated
himself in one of the chairs and waited for Mr. Literal to explain his
somewhat peculiar behavior.

As an immediate explanation did not seem to be forthcoming, he employed
his spare time in looking about the room. There was dust everywhere,
and frayed rugs and faded hangings. But there were a number of busts
which were really a delight to the eye: of Shakespeare, of Burns, of
Victor Hugo, of Dickens and of others. And there were book cases
filled to overflowing with books--all dust-covered, as if they had not
been touched for years.

Mr. Literal took a seat at last; and for a moment there was silence in
the room and throughout the old house, save that a window rattled
somewhere in the night breezes. Then Mr. Literal leaned forward
deliberately, his finger tips fitted together and his lips drawn into