"Does she, indeed? And how does your mother know what I can see in the
fire or what I can't see?"

"Oh, I don't mean just you--yourself, I mean anybody. Now can you? I
mean can anybody?"

"Why, yes, if that is what you mean; I think some people can. It is the
most sensible thing I have known your mother to say in a long time."

"But how can anybody see such things? Can you see them? I have been
looking at the fire ever so long, and I can't see anything at all but
just the fire, the wood, and the ashes."

"Let us look at it together," I said; and I put a chair that was big
enough to hold both of us before the fireplace. "Just see how bright
the fire is; look down into those deep places under the sticks, and see
how it glows and shines like melted gold. Now, you know when you look
into a mirror you can see pictures of the things in front of it--your
own face, the walls of the room, the furniture. That is because the
mirror is so bright that it reflects these things; yet the mirror is
not bright enough to reflect anything except what is there before it,
such things as you can see with your eyes and touch with your hands.
But the fire can do better than that, for it is a great deal brighter
than the mirror, and it is so bright that it can reflect thoughts. So
you must think of the pictures first, and then, if you know just how to
look for them in the fire, you will find them reflected there, and
after a little while you will be surprised at the wonderful things you
will see."

"I don't know what you mean at all," said the child; "tell me what you