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 moth