She put the tray down and hugged the girls in turn. The boys thumped her on the back with heartfelt affection. “I’m as well as ever I was in my life,” she said. “What nonsense about dying! You’ve been a sitting too long in the dusk, that’s what it is. Regular blind man’s holiday. Leave go of me, while I light the gas.” The yellow light illuminated four pale faces. “We do love you so,” Anthea went on, “and we’ve made you a picture to show you how we love you. Get it out, Squirrel.” The glazed testimonial was dragged out from under the sofa and displayed. “The glue’s not dry yet,” said Cyril, “look out!” “What a beauty!” cried old Nurse. “Well, I never! And your pictures and the beautiful writing and all. Well, I always did say your hearts was in the right place, if a bit careless at times. Well! I never did! I don’t know as I was ever pleased better in my life.” She hugged them all, one after the other. And the boys did not mind it, somehow, that day. “How is it we can remember all about the future, _now?_” Anthea woke the Psammead with laborious gentleness to put the question. “How is it we can remember what we saw in the future, and yet, when we _were_ in the future, we could not remember the bit of the future that was past then, the time of finding the Amulet?” “Why, what a silly question!” said the Psammead, “of course you cannot remember what hasn’t happened yet.” “But the _future_ hasn’t happened yet,” Anthea persisted, “and we remember that all right.” “Oh, that isn’t what’s happened, my good child,” said the Psammead, rather crossly, “that’s prophetic vision. And you remember dreams, don’t you? So why not visions? You never do seem to understand the simplest thing.” It went to sand again at once. Anthea crept down in her nightgown to give one last kiss to old Nurse, and one last look at the beautiful testimonial hanging, by its tapes, its glue now firmly set, in glazed glory on the wall of the kitchen. “Good-night, bless your loving heart,” said old Nurse, “if only you don’t catch your deather-cold!” CHAPTER XIII. THE SHIPWRECK ON THE TIN ISLANDS “Blue and red,” said Jane softly, “make purple.” “Not always they don’t,” said Cyril, “it has to be crimson lake and Prussian blue. If you mix Vermilion and Indigo you get the most loathsome slate colour.” “Sepia’s the nastiest colour in the box, I think,” said Jane, sucking her brush. They were all painting. Nurse in the flush of grateful emotion, excited by Robert’s border of poppies, had presented each of the four with a shilling paint-box, and had supplemented the gift with a pile of old copies of the _Illustrated London News_. “Sepia,” said Cyril instructively, “is made out of beastly cuttlefish.” “Purple’s made out of a fish, as well as out of red and blue,” said Robert. “Tyrian purple was, I know.” “Out of lobsters?” said Jane dreamily. “They’re red when they’re boiled, and blue when they aren’t. If you mixed live and dead lobsters you’d get Tyrian purple.”