"Well, Aveline, are you tired," asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as she returned to her daughter. "Rather tired, mamma, of sitting," said Aveline in that unequal voice that betrays recent tears; "if you will give me your arm, I will walk a little way along the beach." "There is not much sand left," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as they strolled along, "the sea is a sad encroacher, Aveline, and stays for you no more than for King Knute." But Aveline was weeping silently, and made no reply. "Aveline, dearest, what is it?" asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and her heart trembled within her, for of all things she most dreaded her daughter's suspecting her danger; she knew the rapid inroads of imagination upon a delicate frame. "Nothing, mamma," said Aveline. "I am low spirited to-day, and do not feel strong enough to resist crying--that is all." "You must not be so much alone," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "have you seen Brand's children?" "Yes, they have just left me;" said Aveline, "they are nice little creatures, and Jane grows taller I think every day." "Mrs. Fletcher has sent you a basket of her fine raspberries," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "and a very kind note with them." "She is very good. I meet every where with great kindness," said Aveline. "You must take care we do not walk too far," said her mother, "suppose you rest a little." "I will stand a minute, and watch the sea, mamma," said Aveline. She leaned on her mother, and remained gazing on the long range of broken rocks against which the waves were tossing their white foam. These rocks, which a little way out at sea, rose some feet above the level of the water, decreased in size as they advanced to the shore, and appeared nothing more than an irregular mass of rough stones, covered with slippery green sea-weed. Presently a speck appeared on the horizon, and gradually advancing, presented the appearance of some slender vessel. "Look, Aveline, there is a yacht!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "what a beautiful thing it is!" "Yes, a pretty toy," returned Aveline listlessly, "but I prefer a fishing boat. I think my sympathies go rather with the poor, than with the rich. What tales of the still magnificence of moonlight nights, what adventures, what perils of winds and storms are connected with the meanest of those little vessels. And the watchful wife, and the sleeping unconscious children, during those rough dark nights, while the father is out toiling for their bread. I do not like the gentry of our day, mamma; all the poetry is on the side of these poor folks." Mrs. Fitzpatrick smiled, "See," she said, "they have lowered a boat; one of your despised gentlefolks is coming ashore."