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.