Sir John Wetheral and Christobelle were speedily on their road to Ripley. The morning air was fresh and delicious, for May was on its threshold, and April had passed in smiles. The father's countenance beamed with pleasure, for he was conferring happiness—and his daughter was revelling in delight, because she was rolling towards Isabel, and should enjoy hours of amusement with the kind and patient Mr. Boscawen. All nature smiled under her eager eye, and she fancied the woods of Ripley even more beautiful than the grounds of Wetheral. They turned from the high road, through the great gates of Ripley Park, and wound for nearly two miles by the side of a lake, magnificent in her estimation at that time, and lovely in its stillness, now. The grey towers of Ripley burst upon the sight, as they turned rapidly from the beautiful sheet of water to enter the deep shrubbery which led to its entrance, and Christobelle could not help exclaiming—"Oh, papa, how beautiful this is!"

"Yes, Christobelle, it is lovely; and all, save the spirit of man, is divine," replied her father, patting her shoulder.

"That was a quotation, papa, from Lord Byron, which you read to me yesterday. Oh, see what a collection of beautiful plants are ranged in the conservatory!"

Christobelle was engrossed with the sight of the numerous flowering shrubs, when the carriage stopped, and four servants advanced to the hall-door. Sir John inquired if their master was at home.

Sir Foster had been from home since half-past five o'clock that morning.

"When was he expected to return?"

Sir Foster had left no orders or directions.

"Surely," said Sir John, "Sir Foster has forgotten our engagement, and has set off to Brierly alone. Is Miss Kerrison at home?"

Miss Kerrison was walking in the park—should they send her information of Sir John Wetheral's arrival?

"By no means. Sir Foster is probably gone to Brierly; but, if your master returns from elsewhere, inform him I am on the road to Bridgnorth." Sir John ordered the postillions to proceed.

They drove back, towards the park gates, and met Miss Kerrison, at the head of her little troop of brothers and sisters. The carriage stopped at their approach, and Lucy Kerrison's eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"Are you come for me, Sir John? Has Lady Wetheral sent for me, by your early visit?"

The expression of her face clouded over, when she learned their destination; but she could not enlighten her friends upon Sir Foster's flight. Lucy said, "her father did such odd things, that no one at Ripley ever knew where he was. Sometimes he was here, and sometimes he was there—he had left the house very early, which was rather an event of novelty, as he seldom rose before eleven; but she was sure her father did not know himself where he was going, and no one else could guess." With this unsatisfactory intelligence, Sir John and Christobelle were obliged to take leave of Miss Kerrison, and pursue their route. Sir John persisted in supposing Sir Foster far on his way towards Brierly. Christobelle, on the other hand, felt an undefinable assurance that he was gone to visit Clara. The subject, however, faded soon from the mind of each; and Sir John cheered the remainder of the drive, by pleasant tales, and affectionate questionings upon subjects they had read together.

Isabel screamed with joy at her father and sister's arrival. She was walking up and down before their door, holding her husband's arm, when the carriage suddenly appeared before them. She rushed to the door, ere the servant could open it, and threw herself into her father's arms.

"Oh, papa, what a blessing this is! What made you think of coming to see us so soon? and pray let Chrystal remain with me for some months, now she is here. Oh, papa, this is such a happiness! such a comfort!" Isabel threw her arms round her sister's neck, and wept.

"Well, Chrystal, you see I am crying; but it's for joy to see you both at Brierly. I hope you will stay a long time! My dear papa, come in, and refresh yourself before dinner;—and, Chrystal, you will be such a dear companion to me!"

Mr. Boscawen waited till the raptures were ended, and then he welcomed them to Brierly, with the kindness which ever made him agreeable to those he esteemed. The meeting on all sides was most delightful in feeling, and they entered the house, full of smiles and mutual content. Isabel stood for a moment in the hall, and looked at her husband.

"Mr. Boscawen, I am going to take my sister up stairs, into my room—is that right?"

"Certainly, my love, do so; the half-hour bell will ring in a few minutes."

Isabel seated herself, when they had gained her dressing-room, and drew a chair for her sister.

"Now, Chrystal, just take off your hat and shake your curls." Christobelle did so.

"Very well; now you are ready for dinner, so let us chat out the time till the bell rings, and tell me all about Wetheral. Poor Wetheral!—I often wish I was there again. Oh, Chrystal, perhaps now you are arrived, I shall not be so much with Miss Tabitha, work, work, work, all day long!—but what brought you here, without any notice? I hope every body is well?"

Christobelle gave her sister all the Wetheral news, and detailed the affairs of Clara as clearly as her young judgment would allow. Isabel was charmed.

"Well, papa was so good to prevent Clara marrying that old Sir Foster! I assure you, Chrystal, it would have been a foolish affair. How would poor Clara have endured reading four or five hours every day, per force, with her warm temper?"

"Sir Foster never reads, Isabel."

"Ah, but he would have compelled her to read; for old men are all alike, Chrystal. You may depend upon it, Clara would have been miserable. Is Sir Foster very unhappy about it?"

Christobelle told her in confidence what she had seen as she passed through the chapel, and how cheerful Clara appeared afterwards at dinner. Isabel looked serious.

"What could that mean? I was very unhappy, I know, till papa said I should marry Mr. Boscawen. I was very silly, then; but Clara was not Lady Kerrison, therefore she did not know how very soon those things are got over, and I am surprised she was cheerful just at that time. I wonder any body marries so young, when they can do as they please at home. Don't marry, Chrystal, till you are thirty."

The great gong sounded at this moment, and Isabel rose to make a change in her dress: but she continued talking.

"I don't mind that horrible gong, to-day, because you and papa are here; but it is always a signal to me of misery. After the gong sounds, I am sure to pass the remainder of the day with Miss Tabitha, and I am tired to death with teaching. In the morning I am learning geography and history, and the evening brings tent-stitch and lectures. I hope I shan't be obliged to learn tent-stitch while you are here."

Isabel's maid appeared, to assist her mistress.

"Oh, is that you, Mrs. Anson? Do you know if Mr. Boscawen has ordered any change in the dinner? I am sure I forgot all about it. Dear me, Anson, how hot your hands are! Well, if ever I felt such hands! Mr. Boscawen's hands are cold as ice. Just scratch out my hair, Anson. I don't care how it looks; no more will Clara, if she marries Sir.... There is Mr. Boscawen's tap against the wall; don't you hear it? Now that tap always means that he is ready to go down, and I must hold my tongue and make haste. I am always chatting to Mrs. Anson, when you are not here, Chrystal. Come, I am ready now."

They left the dressing-room, and Mr. Boscawen appeared immediately at his door. He offered an arm to each, and they descended to the drawing-room, where Sir John was seated in company with Miss Boscawen, who was diligently plying at a large worstedwork frame, dressed in dove-coloured silk, the whitest muslin handkerchief, and the most delicate net-cap which had ever gladdened the eye: she was indeed the beau ideal of an old maid. Christobelle looked with pleased astonishment at the delicate cleanliness of her person; the band of brown hair, intermingled with grey, which peeped beneath her cap—the tightly-fitting dress—her white silk mittens—the repose of her countenance, which looked smilingly upon her—all inclined Christobelle to admire and gaze upon Miss Tabitha Boscawen. Surely, this could not be the original of Isabel's gloomy description!

Christobelle's admiration amused and pleased Miss Boscawen: she rose, and held out her hand. "You are welcome," she said, "to Brierly, Miss Wetheral. Our dear Isabel will be delighted to have a companion in her work and studies."

Christobelle was charmed by the reception, and stood near Miss Boscawen, examining her work, and watching its progress. She was pleased by her young acquaintance's curiosity, for she performed her stitches very slowly, to allow time for observation. She asked Christobelle if she loved work: Christobelle told her she should like to learn to work well, but that she was very fond of reading. She smiled.

"I shall be happy to teach you every kind of stitch, Miss Wetheral, when you are tired with books. I like to see young people employed. Every hour is valuable, and idleness is the mother of mischief, as you may remember writing in your copybook. I hope you are never idle, Miss Wetheral?"

Isabel answered for her sister.

"Oh, dear Tabitha, Chrystal is always reading history and poetry: I am astonished at her learning, for I never could bear reading or writing: I liked my doll best, and dancing with Tom Pynsent."

"We shall like one another, Miss Wetheral, I foresee," said Miss Boscawen, taking no notice of the latter part of Isabel's speech.

At dinner, Isabel sat silent. She took her seat at the head of the table, it is true; but her eyes were constantly referring to her husband, and sundry whispers from Miss Boscawen, who sat at her right hand, increased her alarm and confusion. There were some attractive glasses of raspberry-cream upon the table at the second course, to which Isabel "did seriously incline," and she accordingly had one placed before her. Miss Boscawen was distressed.

"Oh! sister, that is the worst thing you could eat at this time! Pray send away that cream! John, take away that cream!"

Isabel's eyes overflowed, as the cream vanished from her sight: Mr. Boscawen saw her disappointment with pity, and endeavoured to mitigate the sentence.

"Tabitha, half a cream will not hurt Isabel: let her try half a cream."

"Oh, brother, the very worst thing my sister could take! No, don't eat a cream, sister."

"I think," said Sir John, "as the parent of five children, I will undertake to answer for the innocence of the cream. Lady Wetheral fancied many extraordinary things, and did not suffer from their effects. I should be inclined to give Isabel that cream, Boscawen."

Mr. Boscawen appeared pleased by an opinion of some weight and experience, which coincided with his own wish to gratify his young wife: he accordingly ordered the cream to be reinstated on her plate. Isabel ate of it greedily.

"Oh, brother!" exclaimed Miss Boscawen, "sister will be so ill!"

Mr. Boscawen, however, enjoyed the eagerness and satisfaction with which Isabel devoured her cream. "Poor thing, poor thing!" he uttered, in a low tone, as Isabel laid down her spoon, and exclaimed, "How excellently good that was!"

"It will do you no harm, my love," said her father, as he watched her with great interest; "I will answer for your not suffering any unpleasant effects."

"Oh! Sir John," exclaimed Miss Boscawen, "creams are such very indigestible things! I am sure sister will be very poorly; indeed, brother, sister will be ill."

Christobelle now understood the meaning of poor Isabel's distress, when she complained at Wetheral, that only Miss Tabitha was to preside over her confinement. Miss Boscawen did indeed watch over her with jealous care, and, like Don Pedro Snatchaway in Sancho's suite, she allowed her victim neither to eat nor drink in peace. When the ladies retired from the dining-room, Miss Boscawen fidgeted about Isabel's seat. She was not to sit near the window—it was cold; she was not to sit near the fire—it was hot: the sofa was not quite the thing, and the chairs might make her uncomfortable. Poor Isabel looked at her sister in despair.

Miss Boscawen was equally alarmed when Isabel offered to walk round the flower-garden with Christobelle.

"Oh! sister, the sun is setting, and you will take such a cold! you have eaten a cream; pray don't take cold upon it."

The walk was given up; Isabel would chat about Wetheral.

"Now, sister, don't talk much just after your dinner; nothing does so much harm to the constitution, and so completely prevents digestion."

Well, then, they would all take a little nap.

"Won't you get very fat, sister?" asked Miss Boscawen, as she saw Isabel preparing to lie down upon the sofa; "sleep fattens very much."

Isabel, however, made her preparations, and composed herself to sleep. Christobelle sat by her with a book which she had taken from one of the tables. Miss Boscawen sat down to her worsted frame, and rang for candles. They were some time silent, when Isabel started up and exclaimed she was extremely unwell. Miss Boscawen looked horrified.

"Oh! sister, that cream! I knew you would be ill."

"I cannot tell the reason, but I am very ill. Send for Mr. Boscawen, Chrystal." Isabel looked very pale, and was unable to rise from the sofa.

"Oh! sister, don't send for my brother; let me assist you to your room; the cream has made you sick."

"Send for Mr. Boscawen," repeated Isabel, her face becoming flushed with pain.

Mr. Boscawen was summoned, and he carried Isabel to her bed. The surprise and joy of receiving her family unexpectedly, had brought on a rather premature confinement. The medical man was sent for, the nurse was summoned in haste; all the household were in commotion. The medical attendant gave it as his opinion some surprise or alarm had hastened Mrs. Boscawen's accouchement. Miss Boscawen was convinced it was the raspberry-cream.

Sir John decided to remain at Brierly, till Isabel should be considered out of all danger, and till the little stranger should receive his blessing. All that night passed in eager hope and watching. Christobelle could not sleep; she could not rest in her bed, but remained at Isabel's door, listening to every sound and footfall till the morning dawned; and then Miss Boscawen insisted upon her going to rest again. "Isabel was doing very well, considering she had hastened every thing by eating the cream so pertinaciously, against her own better judgment; she never could digest cream herself at any period of her life; how could her sister expect to do so, when she was so near her confinement?"

Under many promises on Miss Boscawen's part not to forget her in the general confusion, Christobelle retired to her room, and slept long and soundly; when she woke again, Isabel was in safety, and the house of Boscawen rejoiced in a son and heir to succeed to its honours. Miss Boscawen brought the blessed intelligence herself, and redeemed her promise by so doing. Christobelle wanted to fly that instant to her sister, but Miss Boscawen objected. "She was too young to judge of consequences," she remarked; "she would talk too much, or laugh too loud for Isabel's nerves. She should visit her in proper time, and at proper seasons; she had just seen her father, and he had taken Master Boscawen in his arms, and pronounced him a very fine child. Isabel was now, she hoped, asleep."

Christobelle said she would rise immediately, as she wanted very much to see her father; she was surprised to learn he had quitted Brierly soon after his interview with Isabel. He would not allow Christobelle to be called, because her rest had been broken; he left his affectionate love, and his wishes that his child would write often, and attend to Miss Boscawen's directions in her conduct. He had returned to Wetheral rather earlier than he intended, but business of importance called him away. This was Christobelle's first separation from her father. She learned afterwards Mr. Boscawen's perfect approbation of his scheme to spend some months in Scotland; and by so doing, putting it out of Clara's power to renew her engagement with Sir Foster, induced Sir John to hurry away to its fulfilment. It was his intention to leave Wetheral in the course of a fortnight with the whole establishment, and pass the summer at Fairlee. Christobelle was to be Mr. Boscawen's care till her father recalled her.

Isabel was delighted with that part of the plan which decided her sister a guest at Brierly for an indefinite period. The satisfaction of her mind gave her strength and spirits to delight in her little one, and to bear with unparalleled sweetness of temper the tiresome attentions and fears of Miss Boscawen. Nothing was quite right with the old lady which did not emanate from herself. The child was too upright, or it was too long in a horizontal posture. Its food was acid, or too sweet; it was too tight in its clothes, or the poor little thing was hardly kept together in its covering. Isabel tied and untied, as the complaint dictated; but some new fault was ever arising to rouse the alarms of Miss Boscawen. One morning, Isabel amused herself by dressing her babe with her own hands, a pleasure she had not enjoyed since its birth. The nurse sat by her mistress's bed-side, watching and directing the operation, while Christobelle gazed delightedly at the little thing as it crowed and stretched its limbs. The sisters were most pleasingly occupied when Miss Boscawen entered. Her alarms were roused immediately.

"Oh! sister, how can you sit up there, dressing the child? Nurse, take away the infant, your mistress will be so fatigued! you must lie down again, sister."

"Sister," however, was for once resolved to persist; she could not relinquish the delightful amusement.

"Tabitha, I have not washed my child; I am only putting on his dear little clothes."

"Oh! sister, you are very wrong; you suffered by that cream which I begged you not to touch, and now I must insist upon your lying down; what will my brother say?"

"Mr. Boscawen will not object to seeing me dress my little boy," replied Isabel.

"Oh! sister, he will indeed. My brother is not aware how you fatigue yourself. Nurse, pray take the infant from your mistress."

Isabel became nervous, and the baby began to cry with all its might. Miss Boscawen was certain he was nearly strangled by tight strings.

"There, sister, you have hurt him; the tapes are tied too tightly, I dare say. How can you dress a babe, sister, when you never had one before? Nurse, take the poor infant."

A passion of tears weakened Isabel beyond all that the mere dressing of her babe could produce. Miss Boscawen became alarmed, and she ceased all further expostulation. Mr. Boscawen, who never remained long absent from his wife and child, at this moment entered the room. Isabel sobbed out:

"Mr. Boscawen!"

"Here I am, my love. What has discomposed you? I am afraid you are feverish." Mr. Boscawen seated himself in the nurse's chair, and felt Isabel's pulse; he looked very grave. "My dear Isabel, this pulse won't do. Nurse, what has caused this fever?"

"Tabitha won't let me dress my child, Mr. Boscawen," sobbed Isabel, clasping her hands, and looking heart-broken.

"Give your mistress her child, nurse. My dear Isabel, you shall dress it whenever you please. Dress it now, my love, and let me see how maternally you can handle your infant." Mr. Boscawen took his boy from the nurse, and placed it in Isabel's arms. Delighted with the action, and feeling the kindness of her husband's manner, Isabel almost involuntarily kissed Mr. Boscawen's hand.

"Oh! brother, you are very wrong," exclaimed Miss Boscawen, looking anxiously at Isabel, whose delight was unbounded.

"A mother is performing a laudable and pleasing duty, Tabitha, when she nurses and fondles her child."

"Ah! but, brother, you are very wrong. Sister will be quite low and ill this evening. I foretold that cream business, brother."

What could Miss Boscawen do? Isabel continued to play with her child, and her brother authorised the deed; nay, he was watching his wife's movements with earnest and pleased attention. Her authority was of no avail, since her brother sanctioned such very improper exertions; she could only sigh, and resign herself to her own duties—the worsted frame, and ordering dinner.

Miss Boscawen had a kind heart; her own dictations were prompted by good-will to others, and a desire to give pleasure, but then those pleasures must proceed from herself. She loved Isabel, and watched carefully over her health; but Isabel must not think for herself; every idea must originate from Miss Boscawen, otherwise it could not be wisely carried into effect; it could not even be wisely planned, if Miss Boscawen had not been a party in its formation. This was irritating and vexatious. Christobelle was under many obligations to Miss Boscawen, and loved her, when circumstances did not bring her into contact with Isabel. She very patiently undertook to teach her all kinds and varieties of work. She learned all the worsted stitches, and could assist her in sorting colours very ably. Miss Boscawen protested always against idleness in young people, and loved to see Christobelle employed in reading, or, practising under her tuition, the tasteful arts of tatting, embroidery, and fancy-work. Miss Boscawen and Christobelle were very good friends; and she often drew her attention from Isabel, and prevented sundry visits to her sister's room, which would have terminated in mutual annoyance.

Christobelle had been a fortnight at Brierly, when a letter from Lady Wetheral threw her into consternation. It was a great honour to be noticed by her mother, but its contents were astounding.

"Dear Bell,

"You must make up your mind to return home, and be useful in spite of your stupidity, for I can't be left without a companion. Your father alarms me to death with his violence; and as to Clara, she has every excuse for the step she has taken. You know poor Clara and Sir Foster were very much attached, and it was tyranny to separate them. Nothing would serve your father but breaking off their engagement, so Clara ran away with Kerrison the day you quitted Wetheral. I declare I knew nothing about Clara's intention, for your sister always did as she pleased, without consulting me. However, she is Lady Kerrison now, and mistress of Ripley, which I always particularly wished might be her destiny.

"Your father has been ill, and confined some days to his room; but, I confess, I never was better, or more satisfied with the contemplation

of my daughters' excellent establishments. Of course, Clara has no settlement; but Kerrison is a poor, half-witted creature, and it will be her fault if she does not do as she pleases with him. The first Lady Kerrison gave way too much. The Kerrisons arrived at Ripley two days ago, and your father will not allow me to call upon them. I cannot think it right to bear malice; it would have been another thing if Clara had married a curate, or Lesley's son. I tell Sir John we ought to forgive as we hope to be forgiven ourselves; but he shakes his head like Lord Burleigh, and waves me away. Altogether, his temper is become extremely violent, and I must have you at home, for Thompson is going to marry the Hatton butler, and set up a public-house. I have no patience with servants marrying.

"I hope Isabel does not nurse; it will ruin her figure. Whereabouts is the nursery? I hope miles from her room. Tell her about the baize door; and as boys have loud voices, give the child lettuce lozenges, and make it sleep day and night. I hope Boscawen won't let her nurse it. When you return, perhaps you will persuade your father to forgive the Kerrisons, for I wish to give a succession of parties, and I

am sure I knew nothing about Clara's intentions. I think Frank Kerrison would be an excellent match for you, Bell, a few years hence. I shall send Thompson for you next week. Yours truly,

"G. Wetheral."

Christobelle wept over Clara's flight; she wept over her dear father's illness, but still more over the summons to return and become her mother's companion. She gave her letter to Miss Boscawen in distress, for she could not trust her voice. Christobelle was too young then to understand her error in so doing. She was not aware the letter laid bare to Miss Boscawen's notice all her mother's private thoughts and intentions, and that its perusal must consign her to contempt and ridicule, in the opinion of brother and sister. She considered only her wretched fate in returning to Wetheral, as the avowed companion of a person who had never loved her, and who felt compelled to bear with "stupidity," because Thompson was on the eve of matrimony.

Miss Boscawen returned the letter without any comment: she advised Christobelle to conceal its intelligence from Isabel, and try to appear gay, lest the idea of losing her sister should affect her spirits. It might be, Lady Wetheral's mind would change, or some event occur to postpone her return. She would inform her brother of the intimation from Wetheral; but in the mean time Christobelle was to drive all thoughts from her mind of leaving Brierly for some time to come.

With these consolations before her mental view, combined with the hopes and sprightliness of extreme youth, Christobelle soon forgot her sorrow, and enjoyed, in happy forgetfulness, the calm pleasures of Brierly. Thompson did not make her appearance, and the Boscawens never alluded to the transactions which had taken place at Wetheral. In a few days, therefore, all fears were hushed, and she resumed her usual occupations and amusements. Isabel made her appearance in the sitting-room in due time, to her sister's great satisfaction; but their mutual comfort was disturbed daily and hourly by the watchful affection of Miss Boscawen, who objected and demurred to every project and action on their parts, on the score of health. By this vexatious exaction of power on the sister's side, one material change was effected, which progressively gave happiness to Isabel, and gilded the gloominess of Brierly to her eye and heart. It drew her thoughts and affection towards her husband, who so often shielded her from Miss Boscawen's anxieties, particularly in her treatment of her son.

June opened so brightly in sunbeams and flowers, that Isabel and her sister loved to sit with the babe under the shade of a large mulberry-tree which stood upon the lawn. The air benefitted Isabel, and the soft rustling of the mulberry leaves lulled the infant into sound sleep. This pleasure was not suffered to pass without its alloy. Miss Boscawen was not the inventor of the agreeable al fresco, therefore it was wrong.

"Oh, sister, don't sit there! Miss Wetheral, my dear, come in. The flies will kill that poor child; nurse, bring it in. Sister, your complexion!"

"I don't mind my complexion, Tabitha, at all; and my child is very sleepy; it is just closing its eyes."

Miss Boscawen stood at the drawing-room window, with a parasol in her hand.

"Oh, but, sister, that is wrong: the child will be bitten all over with flies. Miss Wetheral, my dear, bring your sister in."

"Tabitha, here are no flies, I assure you. Don't insist upon my leaving this shady place!" exclaimed Isabel, beseechingly.

"Oh, sister, the heat! What will my brother say? Oh, brother, I am glad you are come, for sister is doing very foolishly."

"What is Isabel doing?" asked Mr. Boscawen, quickly.

"Sister is quite in a draught, brother; and the poor child must be all over insects and flies!"

Mr. Boscawen joined his lady. He stood for some moments contemplating Isabel, who sat in a low rustic chair, gently rocking the sleeping babe on her lap. She smiled as she met his eye.

"Mr. Boscawen, I know you are come to take my part. You won't insist upon my leaving this shady seat, will you?"

"No, my love, I am going to enjoy it with you." Mr. Boscawen seated himself on the turf, at Isabel's feet. Christobelle could not help thinking of the fairy tale which described Beauty and the Beast. It was exemplified in the forms before her. Isabel, so young and delicate, sat like a fairy, graceful in every movement, bending over her child, smiling, and delighting to be free from her sister-in-law's power. Boscawen, gaunt, tall, and unlovely, lay extended near her, smiling grimly. Miss Boscawen saw her alarms were unheeded.

"Oh, brother, you are wrong. Sister will be very poorly, and you are on the damp grass yourself—oh, brother!"

It was a useless lamentation: the little party remained long and happily seated under the mulberry-tree; and Isabel, grateful for her husband's sanction, became less reserved in his presence. In time, she even sought his society, and the infant was ever a bond of union and affection between them. Christobelle did not think the gay, thoughtless Isabel would have become such a fond, anxious mother, so devoted to her child, so active as a nurse. And yet, why was she surprised? Had not Isabel warm affections, and was she not the favourite at Wetheral; always kind and conciliating, always gentle and beloved? Mr. Boscawen's age and manners chilled Isabel's heart by his anxiety to bestow attainments upon a mind which disliked application; but her child was sure to call forth every particle of her affectionate heart; its daily wants, its helplessness, made her useful in the way she best loved.

There was no more dull schooling for Isabel to pine over—no more lectures from Mr. Boscawen to urge her forward against her inclination, and perhaps against her capacity. Another object had entered upon the scene, to engross and charm each parent. Isabel never wearied in watching her babe; her dislike to work chair-covers and footstools, under Miss Boscawen's surveillance, was now succeeded by a taste for baby-clothes; and the quickness with which she acquired from the nurse the mystery of cutting out, and shaping materials, proved that an object alone was needed to call forth her energies.

Mr. Boscawen was content to see his lady so employed; the schoolmaster gave way to the parent; and he was no longer distressed by his young wife's thoughtless speeches. How could Isabel talk unadvisedly, when her only subject embraced the nursery department? How could she alarm her husband's nice perceptions in conversation, when all her thoughts rested in one absorbing interest—on one dear and mutual object of earthly pleasure?

Christobelle was happiest of the happy at Brierly. Mr. Boscawen had always something pointed in his remarks which attracted her admiration; and if Isabel could not withdraw her attention from her new and delightful occupation, Christobelle was ready to profit by her husband's extensive reading; to listen with eagerness to his details; and enjoy his animating comments upon men and books. Miss Boscawen was aware that her brother's attention was given exclusively now to his wife and child, to the utter exclusion of her complaints and alarms; but her anxieties abated not. She still objected to every arrangement, and cavilled at all pleasures which her own brain had not devised; she could not even participate in them.

Isabel had long wished to spend a day in Bridgnorth. She knew no one in that part of the country; she could scarcely give a reason for wishing to visit that quiet rural spot; but she had been struck by its beautiful scenery, as she passed and repassed from Wetheral. She liked its situation, its river, its luxuriant banks; altogether, she had an extraordinary desire to spend a day at Bridgnorth, and take her child. It was a little change, it would be a pleasant long drive, and she was sure every body would like the little trip. Isabel mechanically watched her husband as she uttered her wish. He smiled. Isabel found a willing auditor, and her desire waxed stronger in word and deed.

"Well, now, dear Mr. Boscawen, you will take us; won't you? Chrystal and the child will have so many things to see. To be sure, the dear babe can't understand what he sees, but I shall so like to carry him about the town, and hear people admiring his little beautiful face!"

Mr. Boscawen was overcome. This was the first time Isabel had ever addressed him as "dear Mr. Boscawen," and she was tossing her child at the moment with such grace, with such beaming affection! He threw his long arms round his wife and child, most ungracefully, but most fondly.—

"We will do as you wish, my love; we will go to Bridgnorth for a day—for a week, if you prefer it."

Isabel smiled in her husband's embrace, and looked truly happy. At that moment, perhaps, a change passed over the mind of each. Mr. Boscawen lost his alarmed and disgusted pupil in the matronly woman and companion, at least in one engrossing care. Isabel might feel that the task-master was exchanged for a kind and indulgent protector. Her child might engross her heart, but she would honour its father, and rejoice under his mild administration. Isabel's nature was grateful: she must love those who kindly sought her happiness; and Mr. Boscawen's attention to her wishes would surely secure her content of heart. Miss Boscawen appeared the only thorn in her path likely to affect her peace; but the release from books and study was to Isabel's mind emancipation from all evils. The minor vexations of life were hardly felt by her yielding and gentle temper.

The Bridgnorth excursion was at once negatived by Miss Boscawen.

"Oh, sister, going to Bridgnorth! Mercy! who do we know in Bridgnorth, brother?"

"My wife wishes it, Tabitha."

"Oh mercy, brother, what a foolish wish! Eleven miles' drive, and a day spent in Bridgnorth!—what for, sister?"

"I always admired Bridgnorth, Tabitha, and I want to show my babe. I have set my heart upon displaying my babe."

"Oh, sister, mercy! I can't think a drive to Bridgnorth can do you any good. No, stay at home, sister."

"Mr. Boscawen has no objection, Tabitha. Have you, dear Mr. Boscawen?"

"Oh, but, brother, what nonsense! the child will be sick, and sister will be so tired! Don't go to Bridgnorth, sister: let us spend a day at Hawkstone next week."

"I have set my heart upon Bridgnorth," said Isabel, throwing an appealing glance to her husband.

Mr. Boscawen was resolved to please his wife. There was a link between them now, which nothing human could dissolve. Perhaps Mr. Boscawen silently felt pride in the idea of displaying his "beautiful babe," as Isabel termed it. At Brierly, beyond the establishment, there were none to gaze and admire. An elderly gentleman is generally proud of his first-born; the less he says, the more apparent it becomes in action. Mr. Boscawen watched his infant with unceasing interest, though he seldom made it the subject of his discourse. He was now going to enjoy the commendations of passing strangers in Bridgnorth. Isabel openly confessed her pride and expectations; they only lurked in her husband's eyes.

Miss Boscawen could not hear the subject named without expressing her dissent. She had not proposed the drive, or even imagined such an amusement, therefore the whole affair must be foolish and useless. Mr. Boscawen urged his sister to remain at Brierly—there was no occasion for her to undertake an irksome drive, if it was so unpalatable—she could prepare a late tea against their return. Miss Boscawen differed in opinion.

"Oh, mercy, no, brother! I must go, to see that sister does not fatigue herself. The poor child, you know—yes, sister, I will go with you, but, indeed, I think it a very foolish business—what with the heat, and the poor child, I am sure we shall all be very tired."

In spite of Miss Boscawen's murmurs and prognostics, Isabel looked forward with pleasure to the Bridgnorth visit, which was to take place in two days from the date of its first proposition. Isabel gloried in the idea of walking with her infant round the Castle Hill, and up all the streets; she was sure every body would exclaim at the size and beauty of her boy, and it would be a day of proud exultation to her. She was also gratefully eloquent upon her husband's kindness in entering at once into her plan; she was sure she must be the happiest creature in the world, if dear Mr. Boscawen never more required her to read, and plague herself over maps and things. She dearly loved nursing and singing to her babe, and dear Mr. Boscawen had told her that morning, he did not mind the child crying half the night; he was only happy to see what an excellent nurse and mother he had married. Was not that very good of dear Mr. Boscawen?

Christobelle also looked forward with pleasure to the trip; she had never been allowed to accompany her family to Shrewsbury, because Lady Wetheral said, nothing was so impolitic as displaying a lot of coming-on girls; she had never seen a cluster of houses beyond the small village of Wetheral, and her mind resigned itself to most pleasing anticipations of Bridgnorth gaiety. She could conceive nothing more charming than roaming with Isabel up and down the streets, and examining the shop-windows—nothing more sublime than standing upon the bridge, to watch the coal-barges from its parapet—nothing more exquisite than the permission to buy gingerbread-nuts without remark and without ridicule. There were not two happier beings than Isabel and Christobelle, in their visions of the pleasures which were to surround them at Bridgnorth.