He that would flee from suffering must die,
For life is suffering, and life's cure is death.
The earth, the sea, the radiant orb of day,
The star-bespangled sky, the moon's soft lustre,
These are all beautiful—the rest is fear
And sorrow; and if aught of good may seem
To bless thy lot, count it not happiness.
ÆSOP.

The next morning, as early as he could well hope to be admitted, Mr. Haveloc made his way to Mrs. Fitzpatrick's, carrying with him a cluster of beautiful passion flowers. As he came up to the porch, a gentleman was mounting his horse to ride away, who looked like a medical man, and was, in fact, no other than Mr. Lindsay. The good doctor cast a keen glance at Mr. Haveloc as he passed him, accompanied by a slight shake of the head, which might be supposed to mean, that if he came there as a suitor, his errand was in vain.

Mr. Haveloc not putting this interpretation upon the gesture, simply feared that Miss Fitzpatrick might be worse, rang the bell, was admitted, and entered.

Aveline was lying on the sofa, drawing upon a small stand placed on the table by her side. She extended her hand over the top of the stand to Mr. Haveloc, and assured him playfully that she had kept her word, and had told Mr. Lindsay no tales of her gay doings yesterday.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick shook hands with him in silence.

He went round to look at Aveline's drawing.

"Beautiful! Miss Fitzpatrick," he exclaimed; "how many strides have you made in art since you crossed the Alps?"

"Do you think so? Not so many," said Aveline, laying down her brush. "There is something wrong in the colouring of my sky. But those passion flowers; how splendid! Does your villa produce such treasures as these?"

"Will you come and see?" he said. "I do not know what Mrs. Fitzpatrick will say to my trying to entice you out again; but if you have really recovered your fatigue—"

"Perfectly," said Aveline; "in fact, I enjoyed myself so much that it quite counterbalanced the finale of the expedition."

"What do you say to it, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?" asked Mr. Haveloc, looking through his glass at Aveline's drawing. "A little indigo, I think, would set that sky all to rights."

"Do it for me," said Aveline, offering him a brush.

"It is a serious consideration," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, trying to appear cheerful. "It will all wash off," said Mr. Haveloc, still going on with the sky.

"I meant the visit to your villa," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"Oh! Miss Fitzpatrick, you have no idea what a singular little animal the owner of my fishing cottage has entailed upon me," said Mr. Haveloc. "I really think I shall buy him, and take him away with me. A Norwegian poney, as sagacious as a dog, and covered with long hair, that I can only compare to ragged tufts of grass."

"I want to see it," said Aveline.

She had been so used to have every wish gratified by her mother, that without being at all selfish, she almost took it for granted that every fancy she formed should be immediately fulfilled.

Mr. Haveloc was much amused by her manner.

"You shall see him whenever you please," he said. "Suppose I bring him here to-morrow, and you ride him to the fishing cottage."

"Oh, mamma! that would be nice," said Aveline.

"My predecessor had a great taste for gardening," said Mr. Haveloc. "His little green-house is absolutely hung with air-plants, and he has some water-plants of equal value and scarcity."

"Oh! but we must see the plants, mamma," said Aveline.

"I think not just yet," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick; "Aveline had better take a short ride first to try her powers, for the villa must be two miles off; and I hardly think her equal to the exertion."

"Oh! do send Mark for the poney, Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline, eagerly. "I will pay poor Mrs. Brand a visit; for it is so long since I have walked down that steep road. Ah! the morning after I came home; that was the last time I was able to take so long a walk."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick remained silent. Mr. Haveloc could see that she was unusually depressed that day about her daughter. "I will go for him, myself," said Mr. Haveloc. "I think there is a side-saddle in the stable, but I hardly know what I am in possession of—for I have not my horses with me."

"But why not send Mark?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"Because I have nothing on earth to do," said Mr. Haveloc. "I shall see that the poney is cleaned. I shall find the saddle, which I know will not be found if I do not look for it, and bring him here in half the time that a servant would take about it."

"Oh! thank you," said Aveline.

"Mrs. Fitzpatrick looks half unwilling to trust me with you again," said Mr. Haveloc, as he rose.

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "my reluctance is simply to occasion you a walk in the heat, when my servant might so easily save you the trouble."

He came back before they had thought his return possible, and led the poney up to the drawing-room window for Aveline's inspection.

She was delighted with it. The creature was well proportioned, with a sagacious eye, and a small head, half hidden beneath a forest of mane. His hair grew in abundant tufts, like withered grass, and very much of that colour; so that if horses are subject to the same illusions regarding their personal appearance that usually attend the human race, it is probable he imagined himself of snowy whiteness.

Aveline was anxious to set out directly; but Mrs. Fitzpatrick advised that as the sun was still very powerful, Mr. Haveloc should dine with them, and escort them out afterwards. He readily agreed to this arrangement, and spent the time until their early dinner in wandering about the pretty garden and shrubberies with Mrs. Fitzpatrick; while Aveline, reclining in a low chair by the window, had the pleasure of keeping him continually in sight.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick's dejection increased when she was away from her daughter. She rarely spoke, and the few words she uttered were in that low, weak voice which is a sufficient indication, to the experienced of mental distress.

Mr. Haveloc opened upon the topic at once.

"I am truly sorry," he said, "to find that Miss Fitzpatrick is so little able to bear fatigue. I hope you really have reason to be perfectly satisfied with your medical adviser."

"Quite," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, turning to him her face as pale as death, "all that is possible has been done."

"Good Heaven! you do not mean—" he exclaimed, "you cannot so entirely—"

Mrs. Fitzpatrick shook her head. He seemed very much shocked; but it was clear to her that his manner was not that of a person who felt a shade of attachment to her daughter, or anything beyond the natural sympathy which the early fate of so interesting a creature must awaken. Knowing, as she did, the too certain state of Aveline's health, she could scarcely regret that he was spared the misery of loving her daughter: her only wish was to keep him near her while she lived. In Aveline's weak condition, she was certain that she could not support the pain of being again separated from him; and she came to a resolution, at once dignified and singular. She determined to ask him to continue his visits as long as her daughter was capable of deriving satisfaction from them.

After a painful pause of a few moments, he himself renewed the subject.

"It is so natural you should be nervous;—so reasonable you should see her case in a more desponding light than anyone else," he said; "you forget she has youth, repose, all the care that can be lavished upon the most delicate invalid; there are so many things in her favour."

"And do you not think," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "that I have said all this to myself a thousand times. That I have prayed, struggled, hoped, till hope was vain?"

He looked greatly distressed; in reality much more so for Mrs. Fitzpatrick than for Aveline. He had a strong regard, a sincere friendship for the mother; for the daughter he merely felt the interest which her precarious health had recently awakened.

"But is there nothing," said he eagerly, "a different treatment, a warmer climate. Why not try Madeira? So many have derived benefit—"

"Because, in summer, no climate can surpass our own in this place," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "and Aveline will not live to be tried by another winter."

There was something shocking in her calmness. He looked at her as if not comprehending what she said.

"For all sorrow," she continued, as if answering some thought of her own, "it wears you out, or you wear it out, so there is an end either way; and a great end, Mr. Haveloc, in the education of the soul. An end, so important, that we ought not to shrink so cowardly from the agony of the means."

"I wish earnestly it was in my power to offer you consolation, or relief," he said, "but this is a case in which words are idle."

"And yet there is one thing, Mr. Haveloc, which, if Aveline's fate were less certain, I could never propose to you. Your society is an amusement to her, and in sickness every enjoyment is so curtailed, that I dread for her the slightest deprivation. Can I ask you to devote some of your time to us while you remain in the neighbourhood; can I even ask that you should prolong your stay beyond what you might have originally intended. If she should linger—"

Her voice failed her.

"Most willingly, my dear Mrs. Fitzpatrick," he exclaimed with eagerness, "sickness admits of few alleviations. I should be thankful, indeed, if I could afford any comfort to your daughter or yourself."

"You see how desperate I have become," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with a smile, "to demand of you such a melancholy seclusion. You, whose wealth and position would make you so welcome, so caressed in general society. But all considerations give way to the approach of death."

"Good Heaven! Can you believe such a thought could have a moment's weight with me?" he said hastily, "is life a May game that we should only count the hours devoted to revelry and enjoyment? I esteem myself fortunate that I am able to be with you at a time of so much anxiety and distress."

"I thought this of you. I had every reason to think it," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, pressing the hand he extended to her, "stay, there is Aveline; what could induce her to come out?"

As she stood at the end of the narrow shaded avenue beckoning to them, the soft fluttering of her white dress, and the shadowy outline of her figure seemed like a dim foreboding of the fate which awaited her. Mr. Haveloc hastened to her side.

"Are you coming to dinner, you two?" said she playfully, "I have no mind to be kept waiting, since I cannot begin my ride until that business is over."

"And could you not have sent a servant to us," he said, "was it needful that you should tire yourself by coming out in the heat? I shall lock up the poney if you commit any imprudences. Take my arm, and keep in the shade."

"You would make me out to be so very ill," said Aveline as she leaned on him. "I do not despair of having a good gallop on the poney yet. Oh! Mr. Haveloc, you have not told me his name. What is it?"

"Hakon Jarl."

"Delightful! Mamma, did you ever hear such a name? From OehlenschlÄger's tragedy. He shall have some bread from our dinner table."

And Aveline was as good as her word, and fed the poney from the window instead of eating her own dinner.