Fanny sung a song of her own composing, descriptive of her own life, first in its great sadness and trials and deep grief with her sainted mother, and then her bereavement, and then her adoption by her cousin, and the calm flow of her life since then. At the close of her song she alluded to her best friend’s illness, and spoke of her joy that he was now safely recovering. The song and the music were her own, and they came from the depth of her heart. The sad, sweet murmur of her soul’s sorrow in the first verses, was succeeded by the calm happiness and bird-like joy of the years passed in her cousin’s home, and again the sorrowful notes spoke of his illness, and the winged joy burst forth in the happy conclusion. It was a triumph to Fanny when she saw at the close of the piece tears rolling over Mr. Evans’s face, and he said, with a voice rendered indistinct by emotion, “Sing it again, Fanny”—and she was only too happy to comply with his request. When the song was ended, he conquered his emotion, and laughing through his tears, he said, “You shall be my nightingale, Fanny.” “Thank you, I accept the appointment—what salary do you intend to give?” said Fanny, as she sat down on the sofa by the invalid, and passed her hand over his high, white forehead, to see if any fever were warning her to send her patient away to rest. “I will give you myself and all that I have,” said he, again bursting into tears. A flood of new thoughts rushed through the mind of Fanny. She paused to think what to say. “You are weak, cousin, and must not sit up too long. Will you go to your room, or will you rest and sleep on the sofa here?” Mr. Evans was frightened at what he had said. He was sure Fanny could never love him only as a father or elder brother; and now he thought he had broken the freedom of that relation, and he blamed himself, and troubled himself, and well-nigh fretted himself into a relapse of his fever. But his naturally strong constitution triumphed, and in a few weeks he was perfectly restored. Meanwhile Fanny had become grave and thoughtful; and, truth to tell, she shunned her cousin more than she ought. She had not known how dear he was to her till his illness—during the time that he was considered dangerous she had neither eaten nor slept. She had watched over him as a mother watches her first born. She felt that if he should die, life, which had always seemed so full of joy and blessing, would be a blank to her. She had not asked herself if this were love. She had supposed it was only the interest she ought to feel in her cousin. Now she was put upon examining her own heart. She fully believed that her cousin was by no means in love with her, but that his tender confession was owing to the weakness induced by his severe illness and his gratitude to his fortunately successful nurse. CHAPTER VI.