“At least let’s keep together,” she cried. “All hold hands—quick!” The circle was like that formed for the Mulberry Bush or Ring-o’-Roses. And Anthea was only able to take part in it by holding in her teeth the hem of her frock which, thus supported, formed a bag to hold the Psammead. “Is it a game?” asked the learned gentleman feebly. No one answered. There was a moment of suspense; then came that curious upside-down, inside-out sensation which one almost always feels when transported from one place to another by magic. Also there was that dizzy dimness of sight which comes on these occasions. The mist cleared, the upside-down, inside-out sensation subsided, and there stood the six in a ring, as before, only their twelve feet, instead of standing on the carpet of the learned gentleman’s room, stood on green grass. Above them, instead of the dusky ceiling of the Fitzroy Street floor, was a pale blue sky. And where the walls had been and the painted mummy-case, were tall dark green trees, oaks and ashes, and in between the trees and under them tangled bushes and creeping ivy. There were beech-trees too, but there was nothing under them but their own dead red drifted leaves, and here and there a delicate green fern-frond. And there they stood in a circle still holding hands, as though they were playing Ring-o’-Roses or the Mulberry Bush. Just six people hand in hand in a wood. That sounds simple, but then you must remember that they did not know _where_ the wood was, and what’s more, they didn’t know _when_ then wood was. There was a curious sort of feeling that made the learned gentleman say— “Another dream, dear me!” and made the children almost certain that they were in a time a very long while ago. As for little Imogen, she said, “Oh, my!” and kept her mouth very much open indeed. “Where are we?” Cyril asked the Psammead. “In Britain,” said the Psammead. “But when?” asked Anthea anxiously. “About the year fifty-five before the year you reckon time from,” said the Psammead crossly. “Is there anything else you want to know?” it added, sticking its head out of the bag formed by Anthea’s blue linen frock, and turning its snail’s eyes to right and left. “I’ve been here before—it’s very little changed.” “Yes, but why here?” asked Anthea. “Your inconsiderate friend,” the Psammead replied, “wished to find some home where they would be glad to have that unattractive and immature female human being whom you have picked up—gracious knows how. In Megatherium days properly brought-up children didn’t talk to shabby strangers in parks. Your thoughtless friend wanted a place where someone would be glad to have this undesirable stranger. And now here you are!” “I see we are,” said Anthea patiently, looking round on the tall gloom of the forest. “But why _here?_ Why _now?_”