"They are all dead," said Mr. Literal coldly.
"What!—Shakespeare dead?" cried the giant in amazement. But he did not remain for other words. Mr. Literal was staring stupidly at nothing. He went out into the hall and closed the door behind him. He would have descended the stairs then, but some one brushed against him lightly and whispered, "Why do you waste your time in there?"
"I went in against my will," said the giant.
The stranger said in glad tones, "I know you well."
The giant replied, "My name is Will o'Dreams."
"Yes, yes," said the other. "My name is Will, too. Though certain well-meaning persons have always preferred to refer to me as William. I used to write plays, you know."
The giant gazed at him in the dim light. "Of course," he said.
"I used to live beside the Avon," said the other.
The giant's heart grew soft. "It is a beautiful stream," he said. "And children play along its banks, just as in the old days, and men and women passing that way are the happier because you once dwelt there."
But the other held up a cautioning finger. His eyes twinkled mischievously in the dim light. "Not so loud," he said. "Old Mr. Literal will hear you—and you know he doesn't know I am here!"