18 MY NIGHTINGALE.

sweet mother, I have gained a prize, and
can read it too. See here!”
“Thou, Holger,”.she said, and her face
lit up. “ Nay, it cannot be true.” |
“Yes, here it is, little mother,” and
Holger hastily took from its wrappings a
handsome book, bound in red, and con-
taining the most beautiful stories which
have ever been written—the Fairy Tales
(or the Aeventyr, as they call them in
Denmark), of Hans Christian Andersen.
Ah! how happy were two hearts that
evening in that little room in Liljegade.
From the day that Holger received his
prize, a new and beautiful radiance was
east over his life like the pink glow of
the sunset over Christian’s Harbour.
The stories of Hans Andersen smoothed
every little rough bit which lay in his
path. He no longer minded the teasing
of the children in the play-ground, but sat
with the dearly-loved book, forgetful of