“No worse for it,” mused the old soldier, stroking the top of his head tenderly and patting his belt with great satisfaction, “but that’s the last bite I’ll take in this garden.” As Grampa turned to go, a particularly bright little flower bed caught his attention. The flowers grew right before his eyes, dropped off their stems and were immediately succeeded by other ones. Even in the dim lantern light the old soldier could see that they were spelling out messages. “Gorba will return to the garden at twelve o’clock.” This announcement bloomed gaily in red tulips, and while the old soldier was still staring at it in astonishment, the tulips faded away and another sentence formed in the bed: Who stays all night shall leave here never, He’ll be a lantern tree forever! In yellow daffodils, the sentence danced before Grampa’s eyes. “A life sentence!” panted the old soldier wildly, and without waiting for more he plunged across the garden. “Tatters! Bill! Urtha!” shouted Grampa, his own voice hoarse with excitement. “The wizard’s coming back and we’ve got to get out of this garden or be lantern trees forever!” “Forever!” gasped the Prince of Ragbad, who had scarcely recovered from the chimney business. As fast as he could, Grampa told of the flower messages, and when they hurried back to the bed, a pansy sentence had already grown there. “Good-night,” said the pansies politely, then fluttering off their stems, blew like gay little butterflies across the lawn. “_Good_ night!” choked Grampa bitterly. “It’s the worst night I ever heard of. I won’t be rooted to the spot, nor a tree for any old wizard wizzing. Come on! Company ’tenshun!” “Here I come by the name of Bill,” crowed the weather cock, hurling into the air. “But what are we coming to?” panted Tatters, shouldering his red umbrella dutifully, while Urtha kept anxiously beside him. “We’re going back to those stepping stones,” puffed Grampa, stumping along determinedly. The lanterns winked lower and lower and soon it was so dark and shadowy they lost the path entirely. Smothering his alarm, Grampa marched doggedly on, bumping into benches and trees, but never once pausing. “They ought to be here some place,” wheezed the old soldier and then stopped with a grunt, for he had run plump into an iron railing in the dark. “What is it?” whispered Tatters, straining his eyes in the gathering gloom. “Why, it’s a flight of steps,” cried Grampa in the next breath. Feeling for the gate, he entered the little enclosure and struck a match. By the flickering light, he saw six circular golden steps and on the top one in jewelled letters were just three words: “Gorba’s Winding Stairway.” Then the match sputtered and went out.