MY NIGHTINGALE. 27

in less than a minute the door opened and
she rose to her feet. Andersen stood be-
fore her. It was a tall, ungainly figure
that of the writer of the sweetest fairy- |
tales in the world; the face was thin and
clean shaven and the nose long. He was >
not handsome, but the eyes were kind and
helped to reassure Frue Jespersen.

She told the story simply, and the
writer's heart was touched. Tears stood
in his eyes as he read the letter, for this
is how it ran :— ;

“Dear, pear Herr Anpersen,—I am a
little boy called Holger, and I am nearly
eight, but I love you so that I hope you
will forgive me for writing. I kiss your
portrait every morning and every even-
ing. Once I loved mother and smor-
rekage (butter-cake) better than anything
else in the world, but now I love mother
and your stories best. I wish you a’
happy birthday and lots of presents. I