The children trembling in agitation and excitement, carried home the Psammead, trembling in its paper-bag. When they got it home, Anthea nursed it, and stroked it, and would have cried over it, if she hadn’t remembered how it hated to be wet. When it recovered enough to speak, it said— “Get me sand; silver sand from the oil and colour shop. And get me plenty.” They got the sand, and they put it and the Psammead in the round bath together, and it rubbed itself, and rolled itself, and shook itself and scraped itself, and scratched itself, and preened itself, till it felt clean and comfy, and then it scrabbled a hasty hole in the sand, and went to sleep in it. The children hid the bath under the girls’ bed, and had supper. Old Nurse had got them a lovely supper of bread and butter and fried onions. She was full of kind and delicate thoughts. When Anthea woke the next morning, the Psammead was snuggling down between her shoulder and Jane’s. “You have saved my life,” it said. “I know that man would have thrown cold water on me sooner or later, and then I should have died. I saw him wash out a guinea-pig’s hutch yesterday morning. I’m still frightfully sleepy, I think I’ll go back to sand for another nap. Wake the boys and this dormouse of a Jane, and when you’ve had your breakfasts we’ll have a talk.” “Don’t _you_ want any breakfast?” asked Anthea. “I daresay I shall pick a bit presently,” it said; “but sand is all I care about—it’s meat and drink to me, and coals and fire and wife and children.” With these words it clambered down by the bedclothes and scrambled back into the bath, where they heard it scratching itself out of sight. “Well!” said Anthea, “anyhow our holidays won’t be dull _now_. We’ve found the Psammead again.” “No,” said Jane, beginning to put on her stockings. “We shan’t be _dull_—but it’ll be only like having a pet dog now it can’t give us wishes.” “Oh, don’t be so discontented,” said Anthea. “If it can’t do anything else it can tell us about Megatheriums and things.” CHAPTER II. THE HALF AMULET