“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.