"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."