“Hullo, Molly,” called Jack, when he saw her. “Come and look here.” Molly made her way down the garden, and saw that Jack and the old man were both gazing down at something at the foot of one of the trees. It was a dark red plant-pot filled with dry soil. “Mr—er—_he_ was just telling me—what do you think, Molly?” said Jack excitedly. “The Black Leaf came up in this plant-pot one year!” “Oh,” Molly gasped, and gazed at the pot with awe. Such an ordinary plant-pot it looked, with nothing at all about it to suggest that it had ever been connected with any magic. “Of course, missie,” Glan’s father explained mournfully, “it was no use me a-picking it that year, you see, because there was no Pumpkin to pick it for. Besides,” he added bitterly, “it on’y came up for spite. That’s all—pure spite, I call it—just to taunt me as it were. I couldn’t bide the sight of it—especially as the Pumpkin was out of reach—in—in _your_ World.” “What would have happened if you _had_ picked it?” asked Jack. “Nothing would have happened. At the end of the thirteen days it would have withered away, and the plant might not have come up again, perhaps—but I don’t know about that. Still, if it hadn’t, what should we have done this year when we do want it? Eh?” “Yes,” said Molly. “It is a good job you didn’t pick it, because, supposing it didn’t come up again—I suppose there would have been no hope of getting rid of the Pumpkin this time?” “Unless Old Nancy had discovered another spell,” suggested Jack. The old man shook his head dismally, and ran his fingers through his beard. “No,” he said. “I had a feeling—in my bones—that we should need the Black Leaf some day. I always said the Pumpkin would return from—from _your_ World. And then—and then those dreams I had——” “Oh, why didn’t the Leaf come up in your plant-pot this year!” sighed Molly. “Things never happen like that,” mumbled Glan’s father. “They do sometimes,” said Molly. But the old man only shook his head. “There’s Aunt Janet calling us to breakfast,” said Molly. “I was sent out to fetch you. Come along!” And she led the way back indoors again, followed by the other two. “Now, what have you been doing in the garden?” cried Aunt Janet, catching sight of the three serious faces. “Looking at that old plant-pot again, I’ll be bound. You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said, shaking her head at Glan’s father. “Brooding over that miserable old pot—before breakfast, and on such a lovely morning too. If I had my way I’d smash the ugly old thing up and have done with it—though really I believe you enjoy it”—she disregarded the old man’s reproachful glance, and clapped some plates on the table a little impatiently. “What good does it do, brooding over things that are past and gone and can’t be helped! It’s the future we can help, and it’s the future we should give our thought to, and make it better than the past. Glan! Glan! Where’s Glan! Call Glan, somebody. He’s in the shop!”