“I suppose it’s nice to have that,” said Jane, but not with much interest. “And it can give you your heart’s desire.” “Now you’re talking,” said Robert. “Of course I am,” retorted the Psammead tartly, “so there’s no need for you to.” “Heart’s desire is good enough for me,” said Cyril. “Yes, but,” Anthea ventured, “all that’s what the _whole_ charm can do. There’s something that the half we’ve got can win off its own bat—isn’t there?” She appealed to the Psammead. It nodded. “Yes,” it said; “the half has the power to take you anywhere you like to look for the other half.” This seemed a brilliant prospect till Robert asked— “Does it know where to look?” The Psammead shook its head and answered, “I don’t think it’s likely.” “Do you?” “No.” “Then,” said Robert, “we might as well look for a needle in a bottle of hay. Yes—it _is_ bottle, and not bundle, Father said so.” “Not at all,” said the Psammead briskly-, “you think you know everything, but you are quite mistaken. The first thing is to get the thing to talk.” “Can it?” Jane questioned. Jane’s question did not mean that she thought it couldn’t, for in spite of the parlour furniture the feeling of magic was growing deeper and thicker, and seemed to fill the room like a dream of a scented fog. “Of course it can. I suppose you can read.” “Oh yes!” Everyone was rather hurt at the question. “Well, then—all you’ve got to do is to read the name that’s written on the part of the charm that you’ve got. And as soon as you say the name out loud the thing will have power to do—well, several things.” There was a silence. The red charm was passed from hand to hand. “There’s no name on it,” said Cyril at last. “Nonsense,” said the Psammead; “what’s that?” “Oh, _that!_” said Cyril, “it’s not reading. It looks like pictures of chickens and snakes and things.” This was what was on the charm: [Illustration] “I’ve no patience with you,” said the Psammead; “if you can’t read you must find some one who can. A priest now?” “We don’t know any priests,” said Anthea; “we know a clergyman—he’s called a priest in the prayer-book, you know—but he only knows Greek and Latin and Hebrew, and this isn’t any of those—I know.” The Psammead stamped a furry foot angrily. “I wish I’d never seen you,” it said; “you aren’t any more good than so many stone images. Not so much, if I’m to tell the truth. Is there no wise man in your Babylon who can pronounce the names of the Great Ones?” “There’s a poor learned gentleman upstairs,” said Anthea, “we might try him. He has a lot of stone images in his room, and iron-looking ones too—we peeped in once when he was out. Old Nurse says he doesn’t eat enough to keep a canary alive. He spends it all on stones and things.”