the house.
And since that day no one has ventured to occupy the house after
sundown."

Everychild thanked the old man again; and then, together with all his
companions, he entered the old house which had been pointed out to him.

There was, indeed, no trace of ghostly occupants of the house; but on
the contrary, the rooms, upstairs and down, speedily became the scene
of much jollity. It seemed, also, that the old man had spread the
report among the townspeople that a band of children had taken refuge
in the house for the night; and many kindly-disposed folk came and
brought food and drink, so that there was an abundance for all the
children.

After eating heartily, and looking from the windows to observe the
castle wherein the king dwelt, they all sought a good night's rest.

And now once again we must leave Everychild and his companions for a
little while, and take our place among surroundings at once strange and
cruel.

CHAPTER XVIII

HOW THE HAND OF A CHAMBERLAIN TREMBLED

We are now in a room in the castle of the cruel king, on top of the
hill.

The four walls of the room were grim and forbidding of aspect. The
tapestry covering them in places was old and of somber design. There
were two doors opening to the room: one on the right and one on the
left. At the far side of the room there was a deep-silled window with
leaded panes through which a dreary light struggled.

At first you would have said that the room was empty; and then you
would have perceived the Masked Lady and Mr. Literal, occupying a
position among the shadows, not far from the deep-silled window.

The Masked Lady was again wearing the white garment in which we first
beheld her. She was seated before a desk, writing in a large book in
which you could see a few initial letters in red, outlined in gold.

Mr. Literal stood by her, regarding her with an impatient, puzzled air.
And presently it would have seemed that he could no longer endure her
silence; for he asked in a fault-finding tone:

"Can you tell me what you're doing here? This place is--is genuine.
And of late it has been your fancy to haunt places which have existed
only in the imaginations of the story-tellers."

Without looking up from the Book of Truth (for this was the volume in
which she was writing) the Masked Lady replied: "Did you say that this
place is genuine?"

"Of course," said Mr. Literal. "We are in a medieval castle in
Northampton--the castle of K