ut its voice was weaker.

"Would you like to rest a little?" asked Anthea considerately.

"Yes, please," said the Psammead; "and, before we go any further, will
you wish something for me?"

"Can't you do wishes for yourself?"

"Of course not," it said; "we were always expected to give each other
our wishes--not that we had any to speak of in the good old Megatherium
days. Just wish, will you, that you may never be able, any of you, to
tell anyone a word about _Me_."

"Why?" asked Jane.

"Why, don't you see, if you told grown-ups I should have no peace of my
life. They'd get hold of me, and they wouldn't wish silly things like
you do, but real earnest things; and the scientific people would hit on
some way of making things last after sunset, as likely as not; and
they'd ask for a graduated income-tax, and old-age pensions, and manhood
suffrage, and free secondary education, and dull things like that; and
get them, and keep them, and the whole world would be turned
topsy-turvy. Do wish it! Quick!"

Anthea repeated the Psammead's wish, and it blew itself out to a larger
size than they had yet seen it attain.

"And now," it said as it collapsed, "can I do anything more for you?"

"Just one thing; and I think that clears everything up, doesn't it,
Jane? I wish Martha to forget about the diamond ring, and mother to
forget about the keeper cleaning the windows."

"It's like the 'Brass Bottle,'" said Jane.

"Yes, I'm glad we read that or I should never have thought of it."

"Now," said the Psammead faintly, "I'm almost worn out. Is there
anything else?"

"No; only thank you kindly for all you've done for us, and I hope you'll
have a good long sleep, and I hope we shall see you again some day."

"Is that a wish?" it said in a weak voice.

"Yes, please," said the two girls together.

[Illustration: It burrowed, and disappeared, scratching fiercely to the
last]

Then for the last time in this story they saw the Psammead blow itself
out and collapse suddenly. It nodded to them, blinked its long snail's
eyes, burrowed, and disappeared, scratching fiercely to the last, and
the sand closed over it.

* * * * *

"I hope we've done right?" said Jane.

"I'm sure we have," said Anthea. "Come on home and tell the boys."

Anthea found Cyril glooming over his paper boats, and told him. Jane
told Robert. The two tales were only just ended when mother walked in,
hot and dusty. She explai