As nothing happened she began looking at the pictures. And all at once she saw the very last thing she expected-a picture of a third-class carriage in a train， with two schoolgirls sitting in it. She knew them at once. They were Marjorie Preston and Anne Featherstone. Only now it was much more than a picture. It was alive. She could see the telegraph posts flicking past outside the window. Then gradually （like when the radio is “coming on”） she could hear what they were saying.
“Shall I see anything of you this term？” said Anne， “or are you still going to be all taken up with Lucy Pevensie. “
“Don’t know what you mean by taken up，” said Marjorie.
“Oh yes， you do，” said Anne. “You were crazy about her last term.” “No， I wasn‘t，” said Marjorie. “I’ve got more sense than that. Nota bad little kid in her way. But I was getting pretty tired of her before the end of term.”
“Well， you jolly well won‘t have the chance any other term！” shouted Lucy. “Two-faced little beast.” But the sound of her own voice at once reminded her that she was talking to a picture and that the real Marjorie was far away in another world.
“Well，” said Lucy to herself， “I did think better of her than that. And I did all sorts of things for her last term， and I stuck to her when not many other girls would. And she knows it too. And to Anne Featherstone of all people！ I wonder are all my friends the same？ There are lots of other pictures. No. I won’t look at any more. I won‘t， I won’t” -and with a great effort she turned over the page， but not before a large， angry tear had splashed on it.
On the next page she came to a spell “for the refreshment of the spirit”. The pictures were fewer here but very beautiful. And what Lucy found herself reading was more like a story than a spell. It went on for three pages and before she had read to the bottom of the page she had forgotten that she was reading at all. She was living in the story as if it were real， and all the pictures were real too. When she had got to the third page and come to the end， she said， “That is the loveliest story I‘ve ever read or ever shall read in my whole life. Oh， I wish I could have gone on reading it for ten years. At least I’ll read it over again.”
But here part of the magic of the Book came into play. You couldn‘t turn back. The right-hand pages， the ones ahead， could be turned； the left-hand pages could not.
“Oh， what a shame！” said Lucy. “I did so want to read it again. Well，at least I must remember it. Let’s see . . . it was about . . . about . . . oh dear， it‘s all fading away again. And even this last page is going blank. This is a very queer book. How can I have forgotten？ It was about a cup and a sword and a tree and a green hill， I know that much. But I can’t remember and what shall I do？”
And she never could remember； and ever since that day what Lucy means by a good story is a story which reminds her of the forgotten story in the Magician‘s Book.
She turned on and found to her surprise a page with no pictures at all； but the first words were A Spell to make hidden things visible. She read it through to make sure of all the hard words and then said it out loud. And she knew at once that it was working because as she spoke the colours came into the capital letters at the top of the page and the pictures began appearing in the margins. It was like when you hold to the fire something written in Invisible Ink and the writing gradually shows up； only instead of the dingy colour of lemon juice （which is the easiest Invisible Ink） this was all gold and blue and scarlet. They were odd pictures and contained many figures that Lucy did not much like the look of. And then she thought， “I suppose I’ve made everything visible， and not only the Thumpers. There might be lots of other invisible things hanging about a place like this. I‘m not sure that I want to see them all.”
At that moment she heard soft， heavy footfalls coming along the corridor behind her； and of course she remembered what she had been told about the Magician walking in his bare feet and making no more noise than a cat. It is always better to turn round than to have anything creeping up behind your back. Lucy did so.
Then her face lit up till， for a moment （but of course she didn’t know it）， she looked almost as beautiful as that other Lucy in the picture， and she ran forward with a little cry of delight and with her arms stretched out. For what stood in the doorway was Aslan himself， The Lion， the highest of all High Kings. And he was solid and real and warm and he let her kiss him and bury herself in his shining mane. And from the low， earthquake-like sound that came from inside him， Lucy even dared to think that he was purring.
“Oh， Aslan，” said she， “it was kind of you to come.”
“I have been here all the time，” said he， “but you have just made me visible.”
“Aslan！” said Lucy almost a little reproachfully. “Don‘t make fun of me. As if anything 1 could do would make you visible！”
“It did，” said Aslan. “Do you think I wouldn’t obey my own rules？” After a little pause he spoke again.
“Child，” he said， “I think you have been eavesdropping.” “Eavesdropping？”
“You listened to what your two schoolfellows were saying about you.”
“Oh that？ I never thought that was eavesdropping， Aslan. Wasn‘t it magic？”
“Spying on people by magic is the same as spying on them in any other way. And you have misjudged your friend. She is weak， but she loves you. She was afraid of the older girl and said what she does not mean.”
“I don’t think I‘d ever be able to forget what I heard her say.” “No， you won’t.”
“Oh dear，” said Lucy. “Have I spoiled everything？ Do you mean we would have gone on being friends if it hadn‘t been for this-and been really great friends-all our lives perhaps-and now we never shall.”
“Child，” said Aslan， “did I not explain to you once before that noone is ever told what would have happened？”
“Yes， Aslan， you did，” said Lucy. “I’m sorry. But please-” “Speak on， dear heart.”
“Shall I ever be able to， read that story again； the one I couldn‘t remember？ Will you tell it to me， Aslan？ Oh do， do， do.”