s?"

"Nothing but human beings."

"Human beings . . . and why do they?"

"Because every human being--even the most obscure or humble or
wayward--is a little bit of God."

Everychild pondered that. It gave him a deep feeling of comfort. He
gazed away into the mysterious sky. He mused, "What a journey I shall
have to-morrow, with my new friend by my side."

He fell asleep repeating the words, "A little bit of God--a little bit
of God . . ."

CHAPTER VII

THE ADVENTURE OF WILL O'DREAMS

Scarcely had he fallen asleep when a stealthy figure emerged from the
gloom of night and sought out the place where Will o'Dreams lay
sleeping. The stealthy figure proved to be none other than Mr.
Literal; and after he had stood looking down upon the sleeping band an
instant, he kicked the Giant's foot warily.

The giant was up in an instant. His first thought was that his
services were needed. There was no hint of resentment in his heart;
and he proved his gentle qualities by moving carefully, so that the
others would not be disturbed.

He bent his head above Mr. Literal to hear what he had to say.

"Follow me!" said Mr. Literal coldly; and without more ado he turned
and led the way into the depths of the forest, the giant following him
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 touch