The man stood looking at her and her friends in silence for a few moments.

Then he said, "Now how did you all get in here I should like to know; I have not opened the door to any one this morning."

"I had a key," answered Ellen, "and it fitted the door, so this lad unlocked it. We didn't know there was any one here to open it for us."

"Yes, I am the keeper of the gate, but I don't open for every one that knocks. But how did you find your way to the door, in the first place?"

"I came on this gander; it's Mother Goose's gander, you know."

"Oh, then, that is all right. But how about this lad? Did he come on the gander too?"

"No, I came on the pig," answered the boy, speaking for himself.

"I don't know that pig. Where did you get it?"

The lad told him. The gate-keeper shook his head. "It isn't really your pig, you know. You ought to have made it out of nothing. But did you come across the desert?"

"Yes."

"And you passed the dragon?"

"Yes."

"And unlocked the door! Well, I suppose it's all right. And what do you want to set about, now that you are here?"

"I should like to try my hand at fitting a puzzle together," answered the lad boldly.

Ellen stared. She had never heard anything so curious; for the lad to have come all that way and through all those dangers, and then want to play with a puzzle the first thing.

The gate-keeper, however, did not seem at all surprised. He walked over to one of the golden pillars and took a key from the bunch at his side. And now Ellen noticed that in each of the pillars was a narrow door. The gate-keeper unlocked the one in front of which he stood, and when he opened it the little girl could see that the pillar was hollow and fitted with shelves just like a closet. From a shelf the man took a box of puzzle blocks and put it in the lad's hand.

"That's your room in there," he said, pointing to one of the arched doorways.

The lad took the puzzle, and hastened away with such eager joy that he seemed to have quite forgotten Ellen and everything, even the magic pig that followed close at his heels.

The little girl looked after him. "I should think if he just wanted a puzzle he could have gotten one at home," she said.

"Not such puzzles as these," answered the man. "Did you ever see a Queerbodies' puzzle when it was finished?"

"I don't think I did."

"Then come here, and I'll show you some."

The man led Ellen over to a large case and opening the lid he bade her look in. There, all placed in rows, were countless boxes of puzzles,—puzzles that were finished. As Ellen looked she gave a little cry of astonishment and delight. The pictures she saw were just such as one might see upon any puzzle blocks,—pictures of children swinging in a garden, of a farm-yard scene, or a child's birthday party. The difference was that all of these were alive. The swing really swung up and down; the trees and flowers stirred their leaves; the tiny cows switched their tails to scare away flies too small for Ellen to see, and a cock upon the fence swelled his neck and crowed. The children at the party looked at the gifts and then began to play. Ellen even fancied that she could hear their voices very tiny and clear as they laughed and talked together.

"Do you have puzzles like that at home?" asked the keeper of the gate.

"Oh no," cried Ellen. She drew a long breath as the man closed the case. "Can everybody that comes here make puzzles like those?"

"No, indeed. Sometimes even when they get the puzzles finished they don't come alive, and then they're good for nothing but to be thrown away. Do you see all these doorways?"

"Yes."

"Well, there are people in all those rooms, and in every room they're doing something different."

"What are some of the things they do?"

"Over there," and the man pointed to one of the doorways, "they're making garments out of thin air; in the room next to that they're stringing stars."

"Stringing stars?"

"Yes. They fish for them with nets from the windows and then string them for crowns and necklaces. It's very pretty to see. Then there's a whole room where they do nothing but make forgotten stories over into new ones."

"Oh! Oh!" cried Ellen, clasping her hands. "That's what I came for. I came to look for a forgotten story. Do you suppose it's there?"

"Why, I don't know. I shouldn't wonder. But do you want to make it over?"

"No, I want to find it the way it is. My grandmamma used to know it, but she's forgotten it now, so I want to find it, so as to tell her about it."

"Well, I don't know," said the man doubtfully. "We might go and ask about it. I don't know very much about the different rooms myself, but come and we'll see."

The room of the forgotten stories, to which the gate-keeper now led Ellen was very large. So large that when the little girl stood in the doorway and looked about her she could hardly see where it ended. Upon the floor in rows stood countless golden jars. Among these rows figures were moving about or pausing at different jars to take something from them. They all seemed very busy, though Ellen could not make out what they were doing at first.

Quite near the door a girl or a woman was standing; Ellen could not tell which she was. She looked like a woman, but her hair hung down her back in a heavy plait. She wore some sort of loose brown garments. Her hands were clasped before her and she seemed to be thinking deeply; so deeply that she did not notice the gate-keeper nor Ellen nor the gander as they stood looking at her.

Suddenly she began to smile to herself, and, bending over one of the jars, she thrust her hand into it and brought it forth filled with some substance like wet clay, only much more beautiful than clay, for it glistened and shone between her fingers with all the colors of the rainbow. This she began to pat and mould into shape as she held it, humming softly to herself meanwhile as if from sheer happiness.

The gate-keeper waited a few minutes to see whether she would notice him, and then he tapped upon the floor with his ivory staff. The Queerbody looked around at the sound.

"Excuse me," said the man, "but here's a little girl who has just come, and she says she's come to look for a forgotten story; can you tell her anything about it?"

The Queerbody gazed earnestly at Ellen. "A forgotten story!" she repeated slowly. "This is the place to come for forgotten stories, but it may be that it has been made into something else. How long is it since it was forgotten,—this story that you want?"

Ellen told her a long time; ever since her grandmother was a little girl.

The Queerbody shook her head. "I'm afraid it may have been made over," she said; "but there's no telling. There are some stories that have been here for many, many years; this one I was just beginning to use, for instance," and she held out her hands full of the shimmering stuff for Ellen to see.

"Why, is that a forgotten story?" asked Ellen. "I didn't know stories ever looked like that."

"This is only part of a story. When a story has been forgotten it is all divided up and put into different jars. Wondercluff we call it then. When we make a new story we take a handful from this and a handful from that, and when it's done you'd never know it was just old things pieced together. But what did your forgotten story look like? Can you tell me anything about it?"

Ellen could not tell her very much. "It was about a little princess called Goldenhair, and she had a wicked stepmother. The stepmother made her wear a sooty hood, but the fairies helped the princess. Then one time Goldenhair was combing her hair in the scullery and the stepmother came in and made her cut all her hair off; and I don't know the rest."

The Queerbody began to laugh. She held out the handful of wondercluff toward Ellen. "Why this is a part of that very story," she cried, "and you came just in time. A little later and it would have been made into something else. Wait a bit. See if I can't put it together."

She reached down into other jars, and took out handful after handful of different wondercluff. Heaping it on a marble table she began to pat and mould it, working deftly with her slim long fingers. And as she worked, beneath her hands a figure began to grow.

Ellen watched, as if fascinated.

First the head with a golden crown. "It must have a crown because the story's about a princess and royal folk," the Queerbody explained. Next appeared the body in a long flowing robe fastened by an embroidered girdle. Then beautiful white hands and arms. At last it was all done but the feet.

With her eyes fixed lovingly upon the figure she had made, the Queerbody reached down into a jar that she had not touched before. Suddenly her look changed. The smile faded from her face and she turned her eyes on Ellen. "Oh, I forgot," she said in a low, sad voice. She drew her hand from the jar. There was nothing in it.

"What did you forget?" asked the little girl.

"I forgot the castle. I can't finish the story after all."

"But why not? She's all done but her feet. I should think you could easily do those."

"No, you see they have to be made of castle wondercluff. There was a castle in the story, and I haven't used any of that yet."

"What do you mean?"

"You see, when a story is broken to pieces all the parts of it are put in different jars, as I told you. All the king wondercluff in a jar, and birds in another jar, magic in another, witches in another, and so on. All the castles were put in this jar, and now I remember another Queerbody was making a story this morning and she used the last piece of castle there was. Look for yourself. The jar is empty."

Ellen looked in the jar. There was nothing there. "Can't you use something else?"

"Of course not." The Queerbody spoke with some impatience. "Don't you remember the story begins with a castle where the princess lives?"

Suddenly, like a flash, Ellen remembered the genie and his promise. At the same moment the gander plucked at her sleeve. "Mistress, the castle you were promised," he whispered. There was no need of his reminding her.

"If I were to get a castle for you could you finish the story?" she asked the Queerbody hesitatingly.

"Yes, but where could you get a castle, you little girl?"

"I think I can get one." Ellen looked about. "We'd better go out in the hall," she whispered. She was afraid if she summoned the genie in there it would frighten the busy people around her.

She led the way back into the silent, empty hall while the gatekeeper and the Queerbody followed her wondering.

Ellen walked on until she stood under the centre of the dome. Then she stopped and looked at the others. "You needn't be afraid," she said, "he won't hurt you;" but she herself felt a little nervous at the idea of calling up the genie again. However, she drew a long breath, and then, clapping her hands three times, she summoned him to appear.

There was a loud noise as of thunder that made the gander cower behind Ellen, while the gatekeeper and the Queerbody trembled and turned pale. Immediately the genie appeared, more gigantic and terrible-looking than ever.

"Thou hast called me, and I am here at thy command," he said to Ellen. "Wilt thou now have the castle, the treasures, the slaves and horsemen that I promised thee?"

"Not the treasures and all that," answered Ellen, and her voice sounded very little and soft after the genie's, "but I should like the castle now if I may have it?"

"It shall be thine. And where wilt thou have it?"

"I'd like it in a golden jar over in that room," said Ellen, pointing over to the forgotten story room.

"In a jar!" cried the genie in amaze, and he scowled as though he thought Ellen was making fun of him. But when she explained how it was, and why she wanted the castle, he burst into a roar of laughter that echoed and re-echoed against the blue dome. "I have heard of a genie in a bottle, but never of a castle in a jar," he cried. "However, it shall be thine. But hast thou no further wishes?"

"No, that's all," said Ellen.

"Then look in the jar and thou wilt find it there. Henceforth I appear to thee no more."

Immediately, and with another crash as of thunder, the genie was resolved into air and disappeared. For a moment the hall seemed clouded with a thin gray vapor and then that too faded away and all was as it had been before.

Ellen and the others looked at each other while the gander craned its neck this way and that, as if to make sure that the genie had really gone.

The Queerbody was the first to speak. She drew a long breath. "I shouldn't like to see him again," she said. "But I wonder if he really put the castle there."

"I believe he did," said Ellen.

"Let us go and see." The Queerbody was all eagerness.

They hastened back to the room of the forgotten stories and bent over the castle jar. The Queerbody gave a cry of joy. It was half full of glistening wondercluff.

Reaching down into the jar she brought out great handfuls that shone and glistened. "Now I can finish the story," she cried.

She began patting and moulding with hands that trembled with eagerness and under her fingers the silvery feet of the fairy tale seemed almost to shape themselves. Then suddenly the figure stood complete, a tall and shining lady with a crown upon her head. The eyes, however, were blank and unseeing, and there was no breath to stir the silver robe.

"Take her hand," the Queerbody said to Ellen.

Timidly the little girl took the white hand of the Fairy Tale in hers. It was very cold, but as she held it, it seemed to grow warm and soft in her fingers.

"Speak to her," the Queerbody now commanded. At first Ellen could not think of what to say. Then, "Are you,—are you the forgotten Story I came to find?" she whispered.

Slowly the color flushed into the Fairy Tale's face; the life came into her eyes. Slowly very slowly she turned her head and looked down into Ellen's eager face. "Am I that Story?" she murmured. "Look in my eyes and see."