The children were obliged to walk quickly in order to keep pace with their guide, who trotted along rapidly, never troubling to glance round to see if they were coming. Once they had left the clearing and the queer little house behind them, and plunged into the wood, they found it quite dark; and darker still as they got farther in. Strange crackly noises could be heard from time to time behind the bushes and trees, which suggested all sorts of things to you if you happened to be a little girl or boy with a fairly active imagination.

Of course, there was always Old Nancy’s gift—the matches—if the darkness grew unbearable. Both Jack and Molly remembered the matches, but they did not feel quite sure whether this was the proper time to use them, as they were afraid of offending their guide if they suggested that his lantern did not give enough light.

They trotted along in silence for a time, until a particularly loud crack behind a bush close by startled Molly and made her feel that she could not bear the silence any longer.

“Don’t you find it very lonely here—living by yourself in the wood?” she asked the hurrying figure in front of her.

“Eh?” asked Mr Papingay.

It was such a relief to talk that Molly gladly repeated her question.

“Not a bit of it,” replied the old man, without slackening his pace or turning round. “Why should I? I have plenty of visitors—and Percy to take care of me.”

“Yes, but aren’t you afraid of—robbers—or anything?” asked Molly.

“Robbers!” the old man chuckled. “I should like to see the robber that could get past Percy. Besides, what is there to steal? That’s the best of a house like mine, you see. No one can take things from me. I get all the use and pleasure I want out of the things I paint—then when I want new things I paint the old ones out and paint fresh ones in their place. And they can’t be stolen—they’re of no use to any one else, you see. As for the Pumpkin’s spies,” he continued in a loud voice, that made Jack and Molly shudder in case he were overheard. “I’m not afraid of them—they never touch me....”

Molly gave a little scream, as something swept past her head, brushing her forehead as it did so.

“It’s only a bat, Molly. Don’t be a silly,” said Jack in a shaky voice.

“There’s heaps of them about—and owls,” said Mr Papingay, continuing his rapid walk without a moment’s pause. As if to confirm his words there came a mournful “Hoo, hoo, hoo,” from the depths of the wood. The children gripped each other’s arms tightly, and hastened on.

Another minute, and a patch of light appeared in the distance, and the children saw that it was the end of the wood.

“There,” said the old man as they came out from the trees at last, “you can find your way now, can’t you? I must get back—Percy doesn’t like me to stay out very late. That is the farmhouse, over there; straight across this field, over the stile and the wooden bridge across the river, and a few minutes’ walk up the hill, on the other side. You can see where I mean, can’t you?” And he pointed the farm out to the children. “You can mention my name to them—Farmer Rose knows me well. Now if you will take this,” he said, passing the plant-pot containing his precious leaf into Molly’s keeping. “And take care of it. I shall see you both again shortly, I hope. Good-bye. Good-bye.”

“Thank you so much for bringing us this short cut out of the wood,” said Molly. “It was awfully kind of you.”

“Rather,” said Jack. Then, relieved at being safely out of the wood, he added generously, “I say—your lantern’s a marvel!”

The old man nodded and beamed delightedly. Then, waving his hand, he stepped back into the wood, his painted lantern swinging at his side, and disappeared.

As soon as Mr Papingay had gone, Jack and Molly stopped and looked around them. They were in the open country once more, but a more hilly country than that on the other side of the wood, for they had passed right through the wood and come out at the opposite end.

The wood led straight out into a field, across which a narrow footpath straggled to a stile set in the middle of green hedges. On the other side of the stile was a path, and a little white wooden bridge across the river, and on the farther side of the river were hills and the farm-house. The red roofs and whitewashed walls of several cottages and other farm-houses could be seen here and there.

Evening was closing in rapidly, and while they had been in the wood dark clouds had drifted up and were now gathering threateningly overhead.

“It’s too dark to do any more searching to-night,” said Jack. “I suppose we’d better make straight for the farm; and come back and search all round here in the morning.”

“I suppose that would be best,” said Molly. “I don’t feel at all satisfied about the Orange Wood, do you, Jack? I think we must come back and search that too—to-morrow. It doesn’t look a very big wood.”

As the children turned to look back at the wood, the first spots of rain began to come down, so they hastened along the path toward the stile.

“I wonder if Mr Papingay really has searched it thoroughly,” said Molly. “He seems such a funny old man—I don’t know what to think.”

“I do,” laughed Jack. “Mr Papingay’s much too slap-dash to search it carefully. No, Moll, I’m afraid we’ve got to do it to-morrow. It won’t be so bad in daylight. My word! How the rain is coming down. We’re in for a storm, I should think.”

They hurried on, climbed the stile, but when they got on to the bridge Molly stopped for a moment.

“I say, Jack,” she called, and Jack stopped too. “I’m going to throw this plant-pot in the river—it’s too heavy to take all the way with us, and I don’t like to put it down in the field in case Mr Papingay comes along and finds it.” She pulled the leaf out of the pot, folded it up, and pushed it into her satchel, then threw the pot into the swiftly flowing river.

“What are you keeping the leaf for?” cried Jack. He had to raise his voice to be heard through the rising gale.

“Oh, I couldn’t throw that away,” said Molly. “And besides, it may come in useful,” she added as she ran along beside Jack up the hill. “You never know.”

“Won’t old Timothy feel sold when he hears what his Black Leaf really was!” chuckled Jack.

The rain was coming down heavily as they reached the front door of the farm-house. They knocked, and rang at the bell—but no one answered, and there was no sound within the house. They knocked again, then went round and knocked at the back door. But still no one came, and they began to fear that there was nobody at home. This proved to be the case. The stables and outhouses were all locked up, although they could hear a horse inside one of the buildings, and there were some fowls in a hen-run in the yard. Evidently the people were only out for a short time, so Jack and Molly decided to take shelter in the porch by the front door for a while, until the storm was over, or Farmer Rose returned.

“Oh, dear, what a dreadful night it’s going to be!” said Molly. “Are you very wet, Jack?”

“Hardly a bit. It’s quite comfortable in this porch,” Jack replied, and then she heard him chuckling. “I was just thinking of old Mr Papingay,” he explained, and then he broke off with a sudden exclamation: “Oh, bother!”

“What is it?” Molly asked.

“I clean forgot to look for Mr Waffer’s face! Why didn’t you remind me?” said Jack.

“I forgot too,” answered Molly. “Never mind, we’ll look to-morrow if we search the Orange Wood.”

“We mustn’t let Mr Papingay see us, though. What fun! It’ll be like playing hide-and-seek,” said Jack. “Goodness, how the wind is howling!”

They remained quiet for a time, huddled up in the porch. The storm was growing still worse, and it was very dark now. Presently the silence in the porch was broken by Jack exclaiming again: “Bother!”

“What is it now?” inquired Molly.

“Oh, I say, Moll—I’ve lost them—yes, I’ve lost my box of matches—Old Nancy’s matches.”

A thorough search of Jack’s satchel and all his pockets proved that this was unfortunately true.

“They must have fallen out—let me see now—I had them just before we climbed the stile, I’m sure of that, because I put my hand in my satchel to get one of those sweet squares and I remember feeling the box.” Jack tried hard to think back. “I believe I must have dropped them somewhere just by the bridge. Here, Molly, hold my satchel and things a sec, will you, and I’ll just run down to the bridge and fetch the box—yes, I’m sure now I heard something fall on the bridge. I won’t be a couple of minutes. You wait here, Molly; I’ll be ever so quick. No, it isn’t raining much.”

“Don’t go, Jack!” cried Molly. “Its so dark and wet, oh, Jack, don’t go! I’ve still got my matches left—never mind yours now.”

But Jack was hardly listening. “It’s only just down the hill—won’t be a minute—you wait here—I must get them, Molly—we may need them. It isn’t so dark—I can see all right.”

“Wait, wait, Jack. Oh, I know—let me strike one of my matches and see if it can find the other box for us.” Molly was fumbling in her satchel quickly. But Jack hadn’t heard her, and had started off impetuously, calling back, “Shall be back in a minute. Wait there, Moll.”

“I’m coming too,” called Molly, but the wind howled past and Jack did not hear as he raced down the hill.

Fastening up Jack’s satchel and slipping it over her shoulders together with her own satchel, and clasping her own box of matches firmly in her hand, Molly set out after her brother, calling his name as she ran. It was very silly of Jack to tear off like this, she thought, but she was only anxious to get him back safely in the porch again out of the darkness and the rain. She did not stop to light one of her matches until she was about half-way down the hill. Then she stopped and struck one. No ordinary match would have kept alight a second in such a storm, but Old Nancy’s matches, as she already knew, were not ordinary. The light gathered all on one side as usual, pointing straight down the hill.

Molly had just time to see the figure of Jack running in front of her—he had reached the bridge—when the match flame veered right round and pointed up the hill.

Molly turned and looked, but there was nothing to be seen there. What did it mean? She hastened on down the hill, and as her match went out, she lit another one.

This time the light from the match showed her that Jack was on the bridge and had crossed over to the footpath, and was bending down to pick something up. So he had found his matches! But even as she saw Jack, her eye caught sight of something coming from the direction of the Orange Wood along the river bank, toward the bridge. Then the flame from the match veered round and pointed up the hill. But not before Molly had seen what it was that was creeping toward Jack on the other side of the river.

It was the Grey Pumpkin. And Jack had not seen him.

And the match flame was pointing the way of escape, up the hill to safety! Just as the flame had pointed out the way of escape in the underground cellar.

But there was no thought of her own safety while Jack was in such danger. Molly dashed forward, crying out: “Jack! Run! Quick! Come back! Look behind you!” But the wind roared around her as if mocking her, and Jack never heard.

As she ran she lit another match, and by its light saw that Jack was standing upright and had turned—and seen the Pumpkin close behind him. He went to run, but slipped and fell to his knees, and as he was scrambling up again the Pumpkin reached him. Jack seemed to collapse all in a heap on the ground, and then, there was no Jack—but in his place another great Grey Pumpkin. Molly pulled up and stood motionless, gazing with horrified eyes. Then her match went out. She lit another mechanically, and as she did so she heard a terrific crash a few yards ahead, and saw that the storm had broken down the wooden bridge; it collapsed into the river and was caught up by the rapidly rushing current and swirled away. If this hadn’t happened, Molly would have been over the bridge in another second (forgetting in her despair that she could do no good and would only get caught herself). But as it was, she was brought to an abrupt standstill at the water’s edge, while on the other side of the river two Grey Pumpkins rolled slowly away along the path toward a group of tall dark trees....

And so it was that the farmer and his kindly wife, returning home about half an hour later, found a little girl sitting in the porch by their front door, crying as if her heart would break.