“You don’t suppose anyone would want a child like that in _your_ times—in _your_ towns?” said the Psammead in irritated tones. “You’ve got your country into such a mess that there’s no room for half your children—and no one to want them.” “That’s not our doing, you know,” said Anthea gently. “And bringing me here without any waterproof or anything,” said the Psammead still more crossly, “when everyone knows how damp and foggy Ancient Britain was.” “Here, take my coat,” said Robert, taking it off. Anthea spread the coat on the ground and, putting the Psammead on it, folded it round so that only the eyes and furry ears showed. “There,” she said comfortingly. “Now if it does begin to look like rain, I can cover you up in a minute. Now what are we to do?” The others who had stopped holding hands crowded round to hear the answer to this question. Imogen whispered in an awed tone— “Can’t the organ monkey talk neither! I thought it was only parrots!” “Do?” replied the Psammead. “I don’t care what you do!” And it drew head and ears into the tweed covering of Robert’s coat. The others looked at each other. “It’s only a dream,” said the learned gentleman hopefully; “something is sure to happen if we can prevent ourselves from waking up.” And sure enough, something did. The brooding silence of the dark forest was broken by the laughter of children and the sound of voices. “Let’s go and see,” said Cyril. “It’s only a dream,” said the learned gentleman to Jane, who hung back; “if you don’t go with the tide of a dream—if you resist—you wake up, you know.” There was a sort of break in the undergrowth that was like a silly person’s idea of a path. They went along this in Indian file, the learned gentleman leading. Quite soon they came to a large clearing in the forest. There were a number of houses—huts perhaps you would have called them—with a sort of mud and wood fence. “It’s like the old Egyptian town,” whispered Anthea. And it was, rather. Some children, with no clothes on at all, were playing what looked like Ring-o’-Roses or Mulberry Bush. That is to say, they were dancing round in a ring, holding hands. On a grassy bank several women, dressed in blue and white robes and tunics of beast-skins sat watching the playing children. The children from Fitzroy Street stood on the fringe of the forest looking at the games. One woman with long, fair braided hair sat a little apart from the others, and there was a look in her eyes as she followed the play of the children that made Anthea feel sad and sorry. “None of those little girls is her own little girl,” thought Anthea. The little black-clad London child pulled at Anthea’s sleeve. “Look,” she said, “that one there—she’s precious like mother; mother’s “air was somethink lovely, when she “ad time to comb it out. Mother wouldn’t never a-beat me if she’d lived ’ere—I don’t suppose there’s e’er a public nearer than Epping, do you, Miss?”