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?"
"Igiveheranything?" 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.
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 forthe 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!
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, Everychildshouldhave!"
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 sistersand a perfectly fascinating princelooked 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?