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world became Possible again. Lately, my Father has been afflicted with dreams that he says always come to him before trouble overtakes the country, and he fears by some mishap that the country may become Impossible again.”

      “What does he dream of?” inquired Molly.

      “Lemons,” said the young man; “and do what I can I cannot shake him out of the gloom into which he has fallen.... It’s strange,” the young man continued, “but poor old Father seems the only person who did not cheer up when the World became Possible again. It was a nasty shock for him, being banished from Court; and although they’ve taken him back and given him another post—I suppose he’s getting old. And then those dreams–” Glan’s face became serious for a moment. “However, they mean nothing, I’m sure. And now you are here you’d like to see our Possible Country, wouldn’t you? I’m afraid as you are from the Impossible World you’ll have to get a Pass before you can come into the City—but that’ll be all right. You must come and have tea with us. I opened a little baker’s and pastry-cook’s business when Father lost his place at Court, and I still keep it up—fascinating work, making puff pastry and currant buns. I run a special line in gooseberry-jam puffs. I used to do a lovely line in lemon cheese-cakes, but I’ve had to leave them off since Father’s had those dreams. He can’t bear to be reminded–” He stopped, a little out of breath.

      “We’d love to come up to the City; where can we get a Pass?” said Molly.

      “But, I say, what about that thing we were following,” broke in Jack, suddenly remembering what it was they had followed through the tree; the interest of meeting their new acquaintances had made the children forget for a few minutes. “We’d forgotten, hadn’t we, Molly? We were really following a Pumpkin, you know,” he said, turning to the young man.

      “A what!” and the young man’s voice rose to a shriek, and his eyes grew round.

      “A Pumpkin,” faltered Jack, a little dismayed, “A Grey Pumpkin.”

      “Father! Father! It’s come back,” shouted the young man, wheeling round excitedly.

      “Come back!” repeated the old man, rising to his feet and stumbling toward them. “Come back! What has come back? Not the—not–”

      “The Pumpkin,” gasped Glan, his fat, jolly face pale and his hands trembling.

      “Oh, my heart and soul,” cried the old man, his eyes wild with fear, wringing his hands together. “What did I warn you! What did I warn you! I said those lemons meant trouble. Oh, my heart and soul, what shall we do!”

      The father and son stared wildly into each other’s eyes for a second.

      “What shall we do, Glan? What shall we do?” the old man quavered, shaking from head to foot.

      “Where has the Pumpkin gone?” asked Glan, turning to the children.

      “We don’t know,” said Molly, frightened at the distress of the two men. “It came through the tree before us, we followed it, and by the time we got through it had disappeared.”

      “I must go and spread the alarm. I must go and warn. Oh, my heart and soul!” the old man sobbed, and turning, he stumbled out on to the white road and waddled rapidly up the hill toward the walls of the city, mumbling and chattering and sobbing to himself, the keys at his belt jangling a dismal accompaniment.

      “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.

      The light from the fire shed a dull red glow over Old Nancy, and looking at her Molly thought she had the sweetest face she had ever seen. Though much wrinkled, her skin was clear and her expression full of kindliness and quiet strength. Her hair was pure white and peeped out from beneath a snowy mob cap.

      “Oh, do please wake up,” said Molly, laying her hand on Old Nancy’s lap.

      Old Nancy stirred, turned her head from side to side and gave a great sigh; then she slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze travelled from Molly to Jack, and then on to Glan. She sat up. Then passed her hand across her eyes and stared, dazed, in front of her for a moment. Her glance came back to Molly.

      “Who are you?” she said, in a low voice. “And what’s the matter?”

      It was Glan who answered.

      “The sun has set,” he said gravely, “and you were asleep.”

      With a cry Old Nancy started to her feet.

      “No, no, Glan; it can’t be true!” she exclaimed. “Oh, what have I done! What have I done! It cannot be sunset yet.”

      She crossed hurriedly to the window and peered through. A glance at the darkening countryside was sufficient. She turned away, and creeping back to her chair sank into it and buried her face in her hands.

      There was a dead silence in the room. A cinder fell out of the fire on to the red hearth.

      “Well, well.” Glan cleared his throat and tried to speak cheerfully. “What isn’t well must be made well, you know. No good crying over spilt milk, Old Nancy. Come, come, snap your fingers at adversity, you know. We must all put our heads together and see what we can do. What’s

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