Poor, forlorn, ill-dressed, cross-eyed, red-haired, little one—all your defects are so many commendations to Charles Evans. In the deep selfishness of his benevolence he could love just such a child—one whom others would only pity and never think of loving. And he felt a sort of secure property in her when he saw that no one else would be likely to care for her; but he would be very certain not to let her know that he had any kind feelings for her. He was a scraggy limb of the law, and one would think that all the sap of his life had been written out in deeds and documents that brought him dollars, and that all the warmth of his heart had been expended on the Loco Foco candidates from his ward, district, city, county, etc., etc., during the time he had been a legal voter, which had now reached the term of fourteen years. He had amassed a large property, and had neither “chick nor child” to leave it to, as his friends said, all and singular of said friends having made up their minds that he would never marry, though he had only reached the mature and well-judging age of thirty-five. He liked to be thought well of, as who does not; and there was a delicate flattery to him in the thought that Fanny Evans trusted her child to _him_ before any of her own or her husband’s relatives. To any one of these relatives he would have spoken of the burden of bringing up other folks’ brats, but in his heart he thought “it was very wise, and well-judged, and kind of Fanny, to leave the girl to me; and when Ned is out of the way, I shall have nothing to interfere with my plans for the child’s welfare.” When Marie had set his waiter upon the table, she stopped and timidly raised her cross-eyes to Mr. Evans, to see if he wanted any thing more. “Sit down, Marie,” said he. “I wish your name was Fanny, I don’t like fancy names and flummery.” “I was named for my mother, Frances Maria,” said she, in the sweetest and softest voice that Evans remembered ever to have heard. Her voice penetrated his heart—and then her name was Fanny. He had always cherished a cordial friendship and a true respect for her mother—and he wished the girl to bear her mother’s name. “I would like very much to be called Fanny,” said the child. “Well, then, Fanny, how do you like your new home?” “I am very glad of it,” said Fanny, and the tears filled her eyes. “Don’t cry—there’s a good girl. Do you wish to go to school?” “I don’t know how I would like school. My dear mother always taught me.” “Well, you must go and see how you will get on. You will be a good girl, I dare say. You will obey Mrs. Evans in all she asks of you. If you want any thing, come to me. You will call me Cousin Charles when you speak to me, and Mr. Evans when you speak of me. When you speak to Mrs. E. call her aunty, and Mrs. Evans when you speak of her.”