And now that hope and joy are seen to fade,
Like stars dim gliding till they mix with shade;
Now that thy cheek has sorrow's canker proved
When thus by sickness changed, ah! more beloved.
ELTON.

"Aveline, my love, it is impossible that you can ride the pony to-day. Pray give up the idea. Do you not agree with me, Mr. Haveloc?"

Mr. Haveloc was always appealed to, for Aveline had become irritable; a phase of her complaint upon which her sweet temper and habitual self-command had no influence.

"No, you cannot ride to-day," said Mr. Haveloc, approaching the easy chair in which she was sitting, propped up with pillows; "you frightened us all too much yesterday. You are hardly out of your fainting-fit, and you wish to bring on another. Consider our nerves!"

Aveline looked up at him and smiled, even her mother had not the control over her that he had.

"But look," she said, "what beautiful weather; it is hard that I should remain in the house all day. You know I cannot walk. What am I to do?"

"Shall I row you," he said, "you can have as many pillows as you like; and you may lie as quietly as you would on the sofa."

"No," said Aveline, "I am afraid that my head would not bear the motion of the boat."

"And yet you thought of riding," said Mr. Haveloc, with a smile.

This was an imprudent remark, sick people require managing.

"Riding is quite different!" said Aveline angrily; "you do not know how to distinguish!"

Fortunately with all his impatience of temper, she never roused it. He pitied her too deeply; and without feeling the slightest attachment to her in the ordinary sense of the term, he had become very fond of her; he was won by the reliance she had placed in him for every thing.

He met Mrs. Fitzpatrick's eyes turned gratefully upon him, and smiled.

"No; I know nothing about it," he said, leaning over Aveline's chair, "I have no experience in illness. I cannot measure your strength."

"Then," said Aveline with a slight want of consistency, "what should you advise me to do?"

"Let us wheel you in this chair upon the grass; there you can enjoy the sea breeze, and you will be in the shade."

Aveline agreed to this, and she was soon established under the trees, with a little table at her elbow on which stood a glass of water, a plate of hot-house grapes, and a splendid cluster of flowers.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick with her work on one side of the chair, Mr. Haveloc on the grass with a book.

"What are you reading, Mr. Haveloc, that makes you smile?"

"Boiardo, there is something so dry in his manner."

"Do not read to yourself, it fidgets me," said Aveline.

Mr. Haveloc closed his book, and began throwing pebbles on the beach below them.

"Have you much of this pink clematis, Mr. Haveloc," asked Aveline, examining her bouquet.

"There is one plant of it."

"Have you them in any other colour?"

"Yes; in white. But I brought you the pink because it is the greatest novelty."

"Bring me both kinds to-morrow."

"I will."

"And some of the heaths you were talking about."

"Yes; you shall have a splendid bouquet to-morrow."

"Your gardens will be quite devastated, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"That will be of no consequence," he said.

"I wish, Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline, "that you would shoot me a partridge, I should like it for my dinner."

It was the first of September. Now if she had asked him to shoot her a golden eagle, it would have been just as much in his power. He was too near-sighted to shoot; and moreover he had not applied for permission to shoot any where that year. He looked to Mrs. Fitzpatrick for assistance.

"You know, my love," said her mother, "it could not be in time for your dinner to-day."

"Yes; I would wait for it," said Aveline. "The truth is," said Mr. Haveloc, "I am no marksman, my sight is so bad that I could not distinguish a partridge on that walk."

"You say that only to teaze me;" said Aveline, "you can always see mamma when she comes out of the avenue."

"But then your mamma is something larger than a partridge," said Mr. Haveloc.

"Then I am to go without it, I suppose," said Aveline.

"No, for I will go to the next town and bring you one."

"And what shall I do without you all that while;" asked Aveline impatiently.

At this moment, Mr. Lindsay appeared at the drawing-room window, and joined the party on the lawn.

"What are you all caballing about," he asked.

"Aveline has a fancy for a partridge, Mr. Lindsay," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick; "how shall I get one?"

"I have brought one with me," said Mr. Lindsay, "I left it with your cook."

"I am glad you did not depend on me," said Mr. Haveloc, "I should have blundered over the turnip fields all day, and brought you nothing."

"Well, do not you find it very warm," said Mr. Lindsay, "beautiful grapes you have! Where do they come from?"

"Taste them, doctor," said Aveline, "Mr. Haveloc brought them."

The doctor looked at Mr. Haveloc, gave a slight shake of the head, and tasted the grapes. He believed him under the illusion of an attachment to Aveline; for middle-aged people are apt to consider the affections as illusions. But he pitied him, as he would have done any one suffering under a nervous complaint, for he knew that while they last, nervous complaints are as definite as the loss of a limb.

But soon these fits of irritation disappeared altogether; she became placid, grateful, tender; her strength was ebbing away.

Mr. Haveloc came in the morning, only to depart at night. His attention was unremitting; and Aveline seemed only to live in his presence. To wait for his coming; to kindle into life at his footstep; to rest for hours content to look at him; to talk to him on religious subjects, in which he became the learner, and she unconsciously, the teacher. These privileges as she considered them, soothed her later hours, and softened her pilgrimage to the grave. It was not the "Valley of the Shadow" to her. She possessed the sacred support, the healing consolation of a profound religious conviction, which she had not delayed till that hour to seek and to enjoy; and her sickness had purchased for her what she never could have obtained in the days of her beauty and health—the companionship of the person she loved. And, always in extremes, he devoted himself to her comfort with a zeal that astonished Mrs. Fitzpatrick. He seemed to know intuitively how to arrange her flowers—to move her pillows, how to amuse her when she was calm, and to be silent when she was weary. He knew how to draw her attention from her mother on those rare occasions when Mrs. Fitzpatrick gave way to a burst of sorrow. He was her confidant in those trifling arrangements for the future with which she was unwilling to disturb her mother's feelings.

And to her subdued and serious state of mind, her attachment to him took the quiet colour of her other thoughts. She knew that she had done with life; and her affection for him was such as she might carry beyond the tomb.

And thus subdued by illness, yet sustained by the brightest hopes, she tranquilly awaited the moment when her Angel should summon her from the earth.