Peter cried out and began to shiver. He stared at the window, the panes of which were no longer white, but blue. Something was taking place outside, not a storm, as the moor was unusually silent, and there seemed to be no wind. Peter tried to collect his thoughts into a form suitable for publication. He shivered his way to the other side of the room and wrote laboriously: "Gran'vaither be telling to I. Ses he be cruel sick." Then he had another attack of shivers. "Who was that a telling to I?" he shouted, the noise of his voice making him bolder. "'Twas me," came the answer at once; and Peter gulped like a dying fish, but managed to put it down in the diary. "Who be ye?" he called. "Old Gran'vaither." Peter stood in the fern, biting his fingers and sweating. He was trembling too much to write any more. So Grandfather was a living creature after all. He had always supposed that the clock had a sort of existence, not the same as his own, but the kind of life owned by the pixies, and now he was sure of it. "Why didn't ye tell to I avore?" he asked reproachfully. Grandfather appeared to regard the question as impertinent, as he gave no answer. "Yew was making creepy noises last night. I heard ye," Peter went on, waxing bold. "Seemed as if yew was trying to crawl out o' your own belly." "I was trying to talk," the clock explained. Peter had some more shivers. It seemed natural enough to hear old Grandfather talking, and he tried to persuade himself it was not the voice which frightened him, but the queer blue light that seemed to be filling the hut. He remembered that pixies always go about with blue lanterns, and he began to believe that the surrounding moor was crowded with the little people out for a frolic at his expense. Then he thought he would go for Mary, but remembered she had gone to Lewside Cottage with dairy produce. That reminded him of the diary. What a wonderful work he would make of it now! "Gran'vaither," he called. "Here I be," said the voice. "I knows yew be there," said Peter, somewhat sharply. The old gentleman was not so intellectual as he could have wished. "I wants to know how yew be telling to I?" "Same as yew," said Grandfather. "Yew ain't got no tongue." "I've got a pendulum," said the clock, with a malevolent sort of titter. "Yew'm sick?" asked Peter. "I be that. 'Tis your doing," came the answer. "I've looked after ye fine, Gran'vaither," said Peter crossly. "'Tis that there thing on the hearthstone makes me sick," said the voice. "That be a mommet," said Peter. "I know 'tis. A mommet of Farmer Pendoggat." "What du'ye know 'bout Varmer Pendoggat?" asked Peter suspiciously.