“If it’s back, then the country will be Impossible again,” groaned Glan. “It was through the Grey Pumpkin that it became Impossible before. But just tell me quickly—how did it happen? What do you know about the Pumpkin, and where did you first see it?” The children explained as quickly as they could, while Glan stood nodding his head and glancing every other second over his shoulder at the receding figure of his father. “I wondered how you discovered the three knocks on the tree,” he muttered. “It can only be done when the moon is full, you know. You didn’t know? I thought you might have discovered it accidentally, when you were playing, p’raps. Somebody from the Impossible World did that before—many years ago. Well, go on.” The children finished their story. “Oh, it’s the Pumpkin right enough,” said Glan. “Now what can have happened. Old Nancy must have forgotten the usual sunset spell.... No, no, she’d never forget ... she’s never forgotten. There must be foul play somewhere. We must go to her at once and see what’s happened. Come!” And followed by the two children he hurriedly crossed the road to the little cottage opposite, and rapped loudly with his knuckles on the door. CHAPTER IV _Why Old Nancy Slept through the Sunset Hour_ There was no sound from within the cottage, and the three waited impatiently for a second or two, then Glan rapped again more loudly. The sound of his knuckles against the little brown door rang sharp and clear in the quiet of the evening. They waited. Glan called “Nancy!” and “Is any one in?” but as there was still no answer he lifted the latch, and discovered that the door was unbolted. He pushed it open. They found themselves in an old-fashioned, low-ceilinged room, full of shadows cast by the flickering firelight. The trees outside the house excluded the faint sun-glow, so that the room was dim and nothing could be clearly defined in the farther corners. A quaint red-brick fireplace took up nearly one side of the room, and in a chair by the hearth there sat a huddled-up figure. “Nancy! Old Nancy!” said Glan, breathlessly, stepping further into the room. “What’s the matter, Nancy?” The figure remained motionless. He bent over it, shaking it gently by the shoulder. “There’s something queer about this. By thunder!” he exclaimed, peering closer. “She ... No, she’s not ... she’s breathing!” He stood back and gazed at the sleeping figure earnestly. “It’s not a natural sleep, though. I don’t like it at all. If I’m not greatly mistaken the Grey Pumpkin has had something to do with this.” “What shall we do?” said Molly, in an awed whisper. “If it is any way possible, we _must_ wake her somehow. Nancy! Nancy! Wake up!” cried Glan, and he shook her arm again; there was such despair in his voice that the children took courage to move toward the sleeping Nancy to try and help him.