“At least,” said Mr. Literal icily, “I do not go about under an assumed name!”

“Nor do I,” replied the other.

“It is false!” exclaimed Mr. Literal.  “I know you too well.  You are that evil creature, Imagination.”

“I am sometimes called so,” admitted the giant candidly.  “The name has a somewhat formidable sound.  I prefer to be known as Will o’Dreams—­that is all.”

“You are trying to evade the truth,” declared Mr. Literal.  “Well do you know that if you were to make your real name known, honest folk would shun you.”

The giant only waved his hand lightly.  “I will not argue with you,” he said.

“But I have something else to say to you,” said Mr. Literal.  “Your statement to those children on the road—­that was false too.”

“What statement?” inquired the giant, his brows lifting slightly.

“You informed them that you were looking for masterpieces; yet you know well that your real purpose was to becloud the young minds of those children—­to turn them from the quest of Truth.  Dare you deny this?”

“I do indeed.  I assert again:  I was looking for masterpieces.”

“Masterpieces indeed!—­in a forest! There are masterpieces”—­and he pointed to the bookcases.  “But you were not even looking for my house.”

[Illustration:  “Masterpieces indeed!—­in a forest! There are masterpieces.”]

“I was not thinking of books,” admitted the giant.

“I grant, there are other kinds of masterpieces,” said Mr. Literal; “but they are not to be found in a forest.”

“Ah, Mr. Literal!” cried the giant.  “I would that I might open your eyes.  Believe me, the forest is filled with masterpieces of such perfection as the hand of man can never know.”

“So—­then name me one!”

“The tiniest leaf that falls from its stem.  Not all the human race could duplicate it.  The humblest plant.  The human eye has no power to take in all its marvels.  And as for the trees—­what has the world produced that can match them?”

Mr. Literal was flushing uncomfortably.  “That is a large boast,” he said.  “The world has produced Karnac; it has produced the Petit Trianon, and St. Peter’s and St. Paul’s.”

“But my dear sir,” cried the giant warmly, “cannot you see that the most labored structure of man is crude and clumsy and artificial, when compared with any tree in all the world?  Houses are dead, pathetic things.  They begin to decay the moment they are built.  Rightly seen they are hideous, save when they are considered in relation to some simple human need.  They keep the wind and rain away—­for which, God knows, we should be the better sometimes.  They have no beauty save the spirit of human striving that is within them—­and that too often is a tarnished thing.  But a tree!  There are fairies under the trees, truly!  True aspirations hover about them, and beautiful dreams.”  He lowered his voice and said reverently, “The Holy Spirit is all about them.”