Now, can you tell me what you go to the fire
for?
_Daughter._ Why, certainly, mother; I go to the fire to warm myself.
_Mother._ And how does the fire warm you, my dear?
_Daughter._ Why, it sends out its heat, mother; and I hold out my hands
to it, and feel the heat.
_Mother._ And where does the heat come from, Caroline?
_Daughter._ Why, the heat comes from the fire, mother.
_Mother._ Then, my dear, you know at least one of the effects of fire.
It produces, or rather sends out, heat.
_Daughter._ But does not the fire make the heat, mother?
_Mother._ If you had a little bird, or a mouse, in a cage, and should
open the door and let it out, should you say that you _made_ the little
bird, or the mouse?
_Daughter._ Say that I made them, mother?--why, no; certainly not. I
only let them go free. God made them. You told me that God made all
things.
_Mother._ Neither did the fire make the heat. It only made it free,
somewhat in the same manner that you would make the bird or the mouse
free, by opening the door of the cage.
_Daughter.
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