30 MY NIGHTINGALE.

He stepped forward to the bed, and as
the light of the candle fell on his features
Holger’s blue eyes opened; a glad sur-
prise dawned in them, and with a cry of |
“ Andersen, you have come!” he raised
himself in bed.
The writer tenderly laid him back on
the pillows, and taking the book from the
hot hands, opened it at “The Nightingale,”
and sitting by the bed, commenced read-
ing the story in a sweet, clear voice.
After the first few sentences, a quiet
expression stole over Holger’s face; his
eyes were fixed on the reader, and as the
last sentence fell from his lips, Holger
murmured, “You are my nightingale,”
and sank into a refreshing sleep.
Andersen sat by the little bed till the
blue daylight came creeping in at the
window. He had made the poor worn-
out mother lie down to rest for a while.
At last Holger stirred and opened his