In her eagerness the child had stepped out of the shelter of the forest. The sad-eyed woman saw her. She stood up, her thin face lighted up with a radiance like sunrise, her long, lean arms stretched towards the London child. “Imogen!” she cried—at least the word was more like that than any other word—“Imogen!” There was a moment of great silence; the naked children paused in their play, the women on the bank stared anxiously. “Oh, it _is_ mother—it _is!_” cried Imogen-from-London, and rushed across the cleared space. She and her mother clung together—so closely, so strongly that they stood an instant like a statue carved in stone. Then the women crowded round. “It _is_ my Imogen!” cried the woman. “Oh it is! And she wasn’t eaten by wolves. She’s come back to me. Tell me, my darling, how did you escape? Where have you been? Who has fed and clothed you?” “I don’t know nothink,” said Imogen. “Poor child!” whispered the women who crowded round, “the terror of the wolves has turned her brain.” “But you know _me?_” said the fair-haired woman. And Imogen, clinging with black-clothed arms to the bare neck, answered— “Oh, yes, mother, I know _you_ right ’nough.” “What is it? What do they say?” the learned gentleman asked anxiously. “You wished to come where someone wanted the child,” said the Psammead. “The child says this is her mother.” “And the mother?” “You can see,” said the Psammead. “But is she really? Her child, I mean?” “Who knows?” said the Psammead; “but each one fills the empty place in the other’s heart. It is enough.” “Oh,” said the learned gentleman, “this is a good dream. I wish the child might stay in the dream.” The Psammead blew itself out and granted the wish. So Imogen’s future was assured. She had found someone to want her. “If only all the children that no one wants,” began the learned gentleman—but the woman interrupted. She came towards them. “Welcome, all!” she cried. “I am the Queen, and my child tells me that you have befriended her; and this I well believe, looking on your faces. Your garb is strange, but faces I can read. The child is bewitched, I see that well, but in this she speaks truth. Is it not so?” The children said it wasn’t worth mentioning. I wish you could have seen all the honours and kindnesses lavished on the children and the learned gentleman by those ancient Britons. You would have thought, to see them, that a child was something to make a fuss about, not a bit of rubbish to be hustled about the streets and hidden away in the Workhouse. It wasn’t as grand as the entertainment at Babylon, but somehow it was more satisfying. “I think you children have some wonderful influence on me,” said the learned gentleman. “I never dreamed such dreams before I knew you.” It was when they were alone that night under the stars where the Britons had spread a heap Of dried fern for them to sleep on, that Cyril spoke.