“It’s after the great reformer—surely you’ve heard of _him?_ He lived in the dark ages, and he saw that what you ought to do is to find out what you want and then try to get it. Up to then people had always tried to tinker up what they’d got. We’ve got a great many of the things he thought of. Then ‘Wells’ means springs of clear water. It’s a nice name, don’t you think?” Here Wells returned with strawberries and cakes and lemonade on a tray, and everybody ate and enjoyed. “Now, Wells,” said the lady, “run off or you’ll be late and not meet your Daddy.” Wells kissed her, waved to the others, and went. “Look here,” said Anthea suddenly, “would you like to come to _our_ country, and see what it’s like? It wouldn’t take you a minute.” The lady laughed. But Jane held up the charm and said the word. “What a splendid conjuring trick!” cried the lady, enchanted with the beautiful, growing arch. “Go through,” said Anthea. The lady went, laughing. But she did not laugh when she found herself, suddenly, in the dining-room at Fitzroy Street. “Oh, what a _horrible_ trick!” she cried. “What a hateful, dark, ugly place!” She ran to the window and looked out. The sky was grey, the street was foggy, a dismal organ-grinder was standing opposite the door, a beggar and a man who sold matches were quarrelling at the edge of the pavement on whose greasy black surface people hurried along, hastening to get to the shelter of their houses. “Oh, look at their faces, their horrible faces!” she cried. “What’s the matter with them all?” “They’re poor people, that’s all,” said Robert. “But it’s _not_ all! They’re ill, they’re unhappy, they’re wicked! Oh, do stop it, there’s dear children. It’s very, very clever. Some sort of magic-lantern trick, I suppose, like I’ve read of. But _do_ stop it. Oh! their poor, tired, miserable, wicked faces!” The tears were in her eyes. Anthea signed to Jane. The arch grew, they spoke the words, and pushed the lady through it into her own time and place, where London is clean and beautiful, and the Thames runs clear and bright, and the green trees grow, and no one is afraid, or anxious, or in a hurry. There was a silence. Then— “I’m glad we went,” said Anthea, with a deep breath. “I’ll never throw paper about again as long as I live,” said Robert. “Mother always told us not to,” said Jane. “I would like to take up the Duties of Citizenship for a special subject,” said Cyril. “I wonder if Father could put me through it. I shall ask him when he comes home.” “If we’d found the Amulet, Father could be home _now_,” said Anthea, “and Mother and The Lamb.” “Let’s go into the future _again_,” suggested Jane brightly. “Perhaps we could remember if it wasn’t such an awful way off.” So they did. This time they said, “The future, where the Amulet is, not so far away.”