Our joys are kin to griefs—in time shall cease
The term of soundest health: disease
Dwells in our house, and opes to death a door.
Oft amid favouring gales and summer skies
Destruction's breakers madly rise
And wreck our hopes upon the rocky shore.
AGAMEMNON.

If Mr. Haveloc had not been entirely engrossed by his affection for Margaret, it would have been almost impossible to have been thrown so much in the society of Aveline, and under circumstances of such touching interest, without becoming warmly attached to her.

Her understanding was more matured, her fancy brighter, her acquirements larger than those of Margaret. She had not been to a boarding-school; and she had gained from her mother's thoughtful mind, more education than from all her masters. She was less beautiful than Margaret—less graceful, but more elegant; there was more of style about her appearance, and less of simplicity. Therefore she looked older than she was, and Margaret younger. And in the details of domestic life, she was perhaps more formed than Margaret, to interest the fancy and excite the attention.

She was accustomed to make all those little demands upon the sympathy and assistance of those around her, which you see so constantly in French women, and which are generally attractive to men in this country, perhaps from their contrast to the more quiet and independent habits of English women in general.

If she wished to give little Jane a bonnet and cloak, Mr. Haveloc and her mamma were summoned to the table, and were obliged to look over the patterns the servant had brought from the neighbouring town, and discuss the colour and fashion of the garments. And Mr. Haveloc was desired to walk down to Brand's cottage, and look at the child to see whether red or blue would suit her best; and to inquire after Mrs. Brand's health, and to ask the best of the two Toms, whether he had yet been able to find that specimen of sea-weed that Miss Fitzpatrick wanted to complete her orders of Cryptogamia.

Those persons who spend their lives in wandering from place to place, little know how much of interest they forfeit in not having a settled place of abode. So many little elegant trifles accumulate in a home that can never be packed up and carried from one hired residence to another. Mrs. Fitzpatrick's was just the sort of house where one might lounge away the morning delightfully. Chairs and sofas of all patterns were scattered about the room; drawn to the carved tables, or placed temptingly near the large, open window, from which you could step at once into the garden, where the finest flowers filled the air with their perfume, and seemed to overrun the wire baskets in which they were planted. The tables were strewn with books and prints; with cameos, carvings and choice miniatures. Aveline's painting was generally on a reading stand near the sofa, and a little lava tray of modelling tools stood on a slab at the farthest end of the room, covered by a cambric handkerchief with a foreign border of brilliant colours.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was generally to be found seated near the sofa, working at a large frame of embroidery, an employment at once picturesque and dignified for persons of middle age, but which in young people seems to be the resource of an indolent mind. Aveline had as yet but few of the habits of an invalid. She was very careful of her costume, which was generally a richly worked muslin made in a foreign fashion; with a large Cachemere lying somewhere about the room, which wrapped her from head to foot when she became chilly. And though it was out of her power to occupy herself for more than a few minutes at a time, yet it was surprising how little of languor pervaded her manner and conversation. She had always a book by her side to glance into when she was at ease, and when her restless fits came over her, she would wander about the room arranging the flowers, or tuning her harp, or turning over the beautiful articles of virtÚ, with which the room was decorated. And when wrapped in her bright coloured Cachemere she reclined in an easy chair with her silver bonbonniÉre in her fingers which she handled as an old courtier might have done a snuff-box, a stranger could not easily have been made to believe that but a few weeks of life remained to her.

It was singular that Mr. Haveloc never suspected her affection for him. She who seemed to receive new life from his presence; who was entirely and exclusively occupied with him—who hardly removed her eyes from him when he came, and who spent her time in expecting him when he was away. He treated it all as a sick person's fancy, and submitted far more implicitly to her demands, than if he had been seeking to ingratiate himself in her heart.

Serious illness generally weakens the mind; and in the case of Aveline, it some-what dimmed her perceptions. She did not attach the exact meaning to Mr. Haveloc's constant visits, that she could not fail to have done in health. She had mourned his absence, she was contented in his society, and it seemed as if she felt no desire to penetrate the future, or to anticipate a time when they must part.

"He is late, mamma," said Aveline one day. "He is certainly later this morning; something has happened. That yacht—you know it was very windy last night."

"My dear child, I can see the yacht from the window; and I do not think he has been on board of her since we went with him. Besides, we must not be so unreasonable as to look for him always at one hour."

Aveline took up her book again. Presently Mr. Haveloc made his appearance at the drawing-room window with a large flower in his hand; a splendid cup-shaped blossom, with white leaves tinged with pink, that shed a delightful perfume all over the room.

"Look, Miss Fitzpatrick," he said coming up to Aveline, "I have waited for some purpose; my water-lilly has flowered this morning. Did you ever see anything so beautiful?"

"And you have brought it me," said Aveline taking the flower, "how good you are. I will put it in water directly. It shall have the Dresden jar all to itself; that with the holly berries."

Mr. Haveloc brought the jar and rang for water.

"And is this a water-lilly?" said she, still admiring the flower. "Of that species; it came from South America, and is I believe, the only one in England. I had hoped it was a lotus just to put one in mind of Moore's poetry. And how are you to-day?"

"To-day? Charming. I could do all sorts of things. Walk down to the beach, or up to the village; or play a fantasia on the harp." As she spoke, a string flew. "Hark;" she said, "I have lost a harp-string; a small one I think by the sound. Just look and tell me the extent of the damage, Mr. Haveloc."

"One of the very smallest. Look—up at the top here."

"I must get up and mend it," said Aveline. "The harp-strings are in that drawer, Mr. Haveloc; may I trouble you?"

She rose languidly, and moved to the harp; resting her hand on the table as she went: selected one of the strings Mr. Haveloc brought her, and began to undo the broken one. But, in spite of her boast, it was not one of her good days. She wavered, and caught the harp for support.

"Why will you not rest;" he said, drawing a chair close to her. "I can put on your string—give me the key."

Aveline sank into the chair and resigned her task to him.

"But who taught you to put on harp-strings?" said she, with a searching look.

"I learned it years ago of a harp player, who was teaching the sister of a friend of mine. He said I should one day find it a useful accomplishment. Do you not agree with him?"

"Perfectly!" said Aveline, looking up to him with a smile.

"And which does this string rhyme to?" he asked, when he had put it on.

"Ah! you are right," said Aveline, "the octaves are the rhymes of music. Look, this is the octave."

"Now, will you go back to the sofa?" he asked.

Aveline shook her head. "I am comfort able here," she said. "I don't mean to move till I grow restless. Will you have the goodness to bring me that tray? I want to look over my tools."

She threw off the handkerchief, and sat playing with her tools and turning them over like a child.

Mr. Haveloc drew a low chair close to hers and began to examine them also.

"Ah!" said Aveline, looking up, "I was just going to advise you to address yourself to sculpture. It is the finest of all the arts."

"Do you place it above poetry?" he asked.

"Sculpture is poetry," said Aveline eagerly, "only it is a universal language. It is the highest art. It is profaned as every thing in these days is profaned, by the language of ridicule and burlesque. But everything in sculpture that is not addressed to the most ideal feelings, becomes disagreeable. The ideal is the atmosphere of sculpture. It does not admit of caricature. Think of Danton's villanous statuettes," and Aveline looked all disgust.

"Ah!" said Mr. Haveloc, "there is one of Liszt, on the drawing-room mantel-piece in my villa—a wonderful likeness."

"And you have not broken it to pieces?" claimed Aveline.

"That would not be in accordance with the Ideal," said Mr. Haveloc. "Justice is a cardinal virtue, and I presume a subject worthy of the chisel; and M. Litzt does not belong to me."

"Don't laugh," said Aveline.

"I did not know," said Mr. Haveloc, "that you were such an enemy to the comic muse. I am sure you must enjoy wit."

"Yes. But the spirit of wit is the very essence of prose, in direct opposition to poetry, which takes all things in a serious light. And in these days everything is mocked and parodied until people are laughed out of the little love they have left for what is noble and beautiful."

"And then there will be a great reaction," said Mr. Haveloc. "We shall all become as sober as judges a few years hence."

"I hope at least," said Aveline "that we shall learn to laugh in the right place, and that will be, not at great, but at little sentiments and actions."

"Do you know, Miss Fitzpatrick, you will think me guilty of treason after your exordium on sculpture. But you talk of the chisel, and your instruments remind me of nothing so much as the apparatus of a dentist."

"Oh, mamma, do scold him!" cried Aveline. "It is atrocious—a dentist too! A race of people of whom I have as much horror as the Egyptians had of their embalmers."

"Well, really," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, looking up from her work. "All those mysterious slender little instruments, Aveline?"

"It is a calumny!" cried Aveline, gathering up her tools. "Do not be angry, Miss Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Haveloc. "I will tell you what I do admire. This handkerchief; the border is superb. You got it abroad. I always know people who have travelled, by their coloured handkerchiefs—they are sure to pick them up at Paris."

"Oh! they are common enough in England, now," said Aveline. "But that is a good border, the pattern is Arabesque. You wear them, don't you? Let me look at yours."

Mr. Haveloc produced his handkerchief with a violet edge.

"How dare you!" said Aveline playfully, "It is much finer than mine. What a coxcomb."

"Change then," said Mr. Haveloc.

Aveline seized his handkerchief with all the eagerness of a child, and threw him hers.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked with rather a grave smile at Aveline; but she laughed and squeezed it behind the cushion at the back of her chair, as if to make sure of her new possession.

"You will repent your bargain, but you shall not have it back," said Aveline.

"Not at all," said he. "I have got the handsome border, and for the fineness I know nothing about it."

"It is just dinner time," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I hope, my dear Aveline, you are ready for it."

"Quite hungry, mamma. Will you run and fetch Hakon Jarl, Mr. Haveloc? I hear Mark coming with his plate of bread."

Mr. Haveloc went off directly, he never hesitated an instant at any of her commands.

As soon as he was gone, she drew out the handkerchief and gazed at it with intense delight.

"Ah!" she said to herself, "I have at last got something of his—I will not again destroy it."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked at her with a sigh, but said nothing. "There is no need now, is there, mamma? When I thought I should never see him again, it was unwise to keep anything to put me in mind of him;" said Aveline, folding and unfolding the handkerchief, and quite engrossed by her own thoughts. "But now that we see him every day—"

"Certainly—it is quite different," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, speaking with effort.

"You feel uncertain about my health," said Aveline, not noticing the anguish her words caused her mother, "but you know it may improve."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick, unable to control her voice, rose and hurried out of the room. This was a most unusual instance of emotion with her, and had Aveline been in health, such a circumstance would have agitated her beyond measure.

"Poor mamma," said she, looking after her mother, "I do believe she worries herself sadly about my health, and no wonder; for at times, I almost despair of myself. I am better now, however." Mr. Haveloc led the pony up to the window, and Aveline fed him with one slice of bread after another.

"Do you think he knows me, Mr. Haveloc?" she asked.

"He ought," said Mr. Haveloc, "but take care, Miss Fitzpatrick, he will include your fingers in his bill of fare some fine day."

"I am sure he would not do it on purpose," said Aveline.

"Ah! here is Mr. Lindsay. I am really glad to see you this morning; mamma is very low about me. Go and cheer her—tell her I am better."

"No—but are you?" asked Mr. Lindsay.

"What has that to do with it? I don't want you to blind me, Mr. Lindsay, but mamma. But seriously, I am no worse than when you last saw me."

"So I find; you are much the same," said Mr. Lindsay, removing his fingers from her pulse.

"And it is more important that you should give me a good word," said Aveline, "because I meditate doing something very imprudent to morrow."

"Ay—what is that?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"Going to church, doctor," replied Aveline.

"You could not do better," said the doctor drily. "It will be a glorious hot day; and the little walk up that steep hill will just put you into condition for sitting two hours on an uneasy straight bench;—go by all means."

"I thought you would be perverse, doctor," said Aveline. "I expected it. And let me tell you, in the first place, I am not going to walk. I mean to ride Hakon Jarl. Take him back, Mr. Haveloc, I have no more bread to give him."

"And why, in the name of all that's good, cannot you stop and say your prayers at home?" asked the doctor.

"Because I don't choose it, doctor. I like to go to church."

"Ah! a good many people think there is something mysterious in the air of a church," said Mr. Lindsay. "However take your own course; there is something truly pious in a bad cold caught in a damp pew—it sends people now and then to Heaven before their time, I grant you."

"Ah, doctor, if people did not know you, they would not think you so good as you are. Now mind what you are about to mamma."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was now quite composed, even cheerful. She shook hands with Mr. Lindsay; "begged him to take some luncheon at their early dinner," and summoned Mr. Haveloc from the garden.

"Aveline is your charge you know," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I do not even venture to carve for her."

"What shall it be, Miss Fitzpatrick?" said Mr. Haveloc, drawing his chair to the table.

"Sweetbread, I think," said Aveline, looking round, "and mushrooms." "No mushrooms;" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I will!" said Aveline.

Mr. Haveloc put them on her plate.

"What do you always shake your head for, doctor, when you look at him?" asked Aveline, laughing; "has he so much the appearance of a bad subject?"

"I shook my head at the mushrooms," said Mr. Lindsay.

"You see, doctor, her spirits are very good," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in a low voice.

"I see," he replied, with a nod. But it was evident he saw no comfort in it.

Every one knows the stillness that seems to settle over town and country on the Sunday in England. Even in the most retired spot, everything is more silent and quiet than before. No sound of waggons in the neighbouring lanes; no rural noise of labourers going forth to their daily toil. And when the scenery chances to be beautiful, the day warm and fine, and this delicious quiet diffused around, only broken by the distant and uncertain sound of the church bells; there are few persons who would be tempted to exchange this refreshing pause from labour; this purifying rest to the mind, for the gaudy revelry of a continental Sabbath day.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick pointed out this stillness to Mr. Haveloc, when he met her in front of her cottage the next morning.

"It always brings to my mind those words of the Psalmist," she said, "'Be still, and know that I am God!' As if this complete and solemn repose were necessary to the mind, before contemplating the majesty of the Divine nature."

"Does Miss Fitzpatrick still hold to her intention?" he asked.

"She does; unless you can persuade her out of it."

"I feel very uneasy at the idea of her going. I saw plainly that Mr. Lindsay did not like it."

"Good morning, Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline. She was standing at the open window, ready for church. Her white dress and splendid shawl, fastened by two large gold pins, gave something of amplitude to her figure; but her face looked more wasted in her bonnet, and the bright colour on her cheeks seemed to assort but ill with their shrunken outline. She seemed more than usually grave and quiet; not exactly in low spirits, but a kind of settled melancholy; she sat down, and gave her hand to Mr. Haveloc; then occupied herself quietly in putting on her gloves. They were a new pair of her usual size, but now much too large. She fastened them, and looked at them for a minute without speaking.

"Are you sure you are quite equal to going, my dearest?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, struck and chilled by Aveline's manner.

"Quite, mamma," said she, steadily.

"You will not be prudent, and let me read prayers to you at home?" said Mr. Haveloc, who was leaning over her chair. "Not to day; but if I live, Mr. Haveloc, I shall call upon you another Sunday in that capacity," returned Aveline, in a low voice.

"The poney is ready," he said, taking up her prayer-book.

"You think me very wilful, I am afraid," said she, as he arranged her cloak, around her.

"Sick people have a right, you know, to be wilful," he replied.

Aveline sighed; and spoke no more during the ride. Mr. Haveloc led the poney, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick walked by her daughter's side.

At the gate of the church-yard she dismounted, and Mark, who had followed at a distance, led the poney away to the Vicarage till the service was over.

Aveline bore the fatigue remarkably well. She remained seated and abstracted, repeating solemnly the responses with the people. Sometimes she seemed to shiver, as if something awful occurred to her mind. But at the Belief, she rose up suddenly, and remained standing with her face turned to the altar, repeating the words after the clergyman in a distinct voice. And it seemed to be quite involuntary on her part, for she sat down again with the same abstracted air, and remained during the service apparently unconscious, or forgetful of the presence of any one.

"I thought I got through it very well," said Aveline, as she was going home.

"Much better, my love, than I expected," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"Don't hurry the pony, Mr. Haveloc; this road is so beautiful. I am not at all impatient to get home," said Aveline.

It was a narrow, steep lane, with high banks, partly composed of broad ledges of rock, with all their fine variety of colours, showing through fern and creepers, and stunted bushes of oak and maple.

Mr. Haveloc led the poney as slowly as he liked to go, stopping from time to time to gather wild flowers for Aveline. All at once the sun went in; the air became chilly—then the wind rose. Dark masses of ragged vapour came hurrying over the landscape, floating and drifting over the hills; now parting like a curtain, now collecting and settling in a dense mass that almost concealed the outline of the country.

"It is the sea-fog. It is coming towards us!" cried Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "What are we to do with Aveline?"

She looked really bewildered.

"Oh, my dear mamma, don't mind me," said Aveline; "Mrs. Grant's cottage is at the end of the lane; I will go in there till the fog is past."

"Let us make haste then, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, mending her pace; "the fog travels fast. She will be wet. What will become of us?"

"Can you go faster?" asked Mr. Haveloc, who was urging the pony as fast as he could walk.

"No; my head swims," said Aveline. She could not bear anything like agitation or hurry.

Mrs. Grant, who had just arrived from church by a path across the fields, was all astonishment when she saw the party coming briskly towards the cottage door. She stepped out of the little garden gate to meet them.

"Why, Miss Aveline, my dear young lady, what brings you out so far from home?" she asked.

Aveline was too flurried to speak.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick began her explanations, but they were interrupted in the midst, for Aveline, after a vain attempt to get off the poney, sank into Mr. Haveloc's arms, and fainted away.

Mrs. Grant was terribly frightened. She thought at first that Aveline was dead. Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as usual, calm and prompt.

"Don't go away," were her first words when she recovered, turning her eyes in search of Mr. Haveloc. "Tell me when you are quite restored, that I may have the pleasure of scolding you," he said, coming up to her chair. "I do not know what business you have to frighten us in this way."

"I will tell you what, dear Mrs. Grant," said Aveline, "we will send for our dinner to add to yours, and we will all dine together. It will be something like a pic-nic."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick agreed. Aveline could not move at present, and she must not be kept waiting for her dinner.

Mr. Haveloc offered to walk home, and give what orders Mrs. Fitzpatrick pleased.

"And be sure to come back and dine with us," said Aveline, eagerly.

"Have a little mercy on him, Aveline," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, smiling; "he may not be quite so fond of pic-nics as you are."

But Aveline insisted; and Mr. Haveloc readily promised that he would come back to dine.

"Is not it nice, Mr. Haveloc?" said Aveline, when they were all seated round the little table in Mrs. Grant's kitchen. Aveline being in the old lady's easy chair, supported with pillows.

If anybody had told Mr. Haveloc at any period of his life, that he would be dining in a cottage with an old nurse, he would have thought he might safely deny the charge; but as he was there, he quite won Mrs. Grant's heart by his politeness to her; and so overcame her by his care for Aveline, that although not much given to hyperbole, she frankly owned that she thought him an angel, the first moment she was alone with Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

The sea-fog passed off, and the afternoon was brilliant.

Mark led home the pony, and bespoke a carriage from the inn, to take Aveline home after tea.

She laid down on the nurse's bed till tea-time; and then rose refreshed and better.

The nurse remained with her, and, at her particular desire, Mr. Haveloc and her mamma went to church a second time.

"And, my darling, whatever you do, don't go to church again until Mr. Lindsay gives you leave," said Mrs. Grant, as she helped Aveline into the carriage. "Ah, Mrs. Grant!" said Aveline, "if I had not felt that this would be the last time, do you think I should have been so earnest to go?"