How could any party, however pleasantly arranged, prosper with Miss Boscawen as one of its members? Nothing could exceed her restlessness, and objection to every plan proposed. They were not setting forth to Hawkstone, therefore every thing was ill-devised—every preparation was nonsensical. Mr. Boscawen rode forward to order dinner, consequently Isabel must endure her sister-in-law's complaints with patient submission; and her comfort, during that lengthened drive, must arise from silently contemplating her child, and exchanging looks of vexation with Christobelle. They had not quitted the Brierly grounds, when Miss Boscawen commenced an enumeration of miseries which must fall to their lot from persisting in their excursion.

"Oh, sister, mercy! How you can wish to spend a whole day in such a place as Bridgnorth, I cannot imagine. The poor child will be so uneasy, and you will be so heated; and Miss Wetheral, my dear, you had better not walk about, but sit quietly at the Crown with us all. I have brought my knitting, and a piece of carpet-work; and, mercy, sister!—what will you do with the child? and how can you be comfortable at the Crown with a baby?"

Christobelle ventured to think the baby would prove their greatest amusement, and Isabel's eyes and lips seconded the observation. Miss Boscawen smiled good-humouredly upon Christobelle, as upon a child whose opinions availed nothing, though the motive was amiable which produced them; but she addressed Mrs. Boscawen in reply.

"Oh! sister, this is such a sad business—every thing will be very uncomfortable, and that poor little baby will be heated into a fever."

Isabel replied gently to all the uncomfortable prophecies uttered by her sister-in-law; but their constant repetition destroyed the pleasure of the drive. It was vain to contend against Miss Boscawen's reasoning, for the result was a quietly-expressed pertinacity, which must end in the discomfiture of her gentle antagonist: it was equally impossible to resent an opposition which took its rise in anxiety for the object whom she professed to love and watch over.

Miss Boscawen was not aware of her own failings; she could not detect herself, how deeply her desire to lead was interwoven with the affection she professed, and really felt, towards Isabel. That desire for power became the bane of her young sister's repose: had Miss Boscawen possessed that power, her kind heart would have ministered in every thing to Isabel's happiness; but, in striving for a poor and useless supremacy, both parties became victims to the struggle.

It was so on this day of pleasure: when they entered the town so long desired, so impatiently anticipated as the scene of matronly pride, Isabel was jaded and disquieted by the miseries of the journey, and Miss Boscawen became doubly impressed by her own complainings, that Bridgnorth would prove a miserable affair. When Mr. Boscawen came forward to assist them in alighting, he was surprised at Isabel's languid appearance, and alarmed at the languor of her voice. Isabel was overcome by her husband's anxious inquiry, his affectionate endearments, and alarms about herself and his child: he stood again before her as her protector from his sister's vexatious remarks, ready to soothe her grief, and advocate her cause: his presence was a relief—it was a pleasure—she began to feel it was even necessary now to her happiness.

Isabel took Mr. Boscawen's arm when she left the carriage, and clung to it with an involuntary movement of delight: her husband perceived the expression of her eyes, as the warm pressure of her hand turned his looks towards her, and that expression agitated his feelings. He forgot Miss Boscawen, his long companion and housekeeper at Brierly—he forgot the sister who had borne with him the dull routine of twenty years in almost positive seclusion, to enjoy a new and delightful emotion in the certainty of having at last won his young wife's heart. That one absorbing pleasure, so novel, and so delicious, caused Mr. Boscawen to forget the existence of Miss Boscawen and Christobelle, who stood ready to receive his attentions upon Isabel's alighting. He had flown with Isabel up stairs, followed by the nurse and her young charge, and Miss Boscawen's transit took place under the superintendence of the waiter, but, on her part, in profound silence. It was evident a severe blow had been inflicted upon her heart or vanity, by this unexpected movement.

When they entered the apartment destined to their use, Mr. Boscawen was still offering all his cares and attentions to Isabel. She was arranged most comfortably on the sofa with the assiduity of a lover. It was not Mr. Boscawen watching over the proprieties of an estranged pupil—it was a husband attending to the comfort of a beloved wife.

Christobelle rejoiced in the scene which gave to her view Isabel happy and unreserved in the presence of Mr. Boscawen. She rejoiced to think her sister was loving him as she had always loved him—that her studies must in future be as pleasing to her sister, as they had ever appeared to herself—that they should now enjoy the dressing-room together, as sincerely as she had formerly abhorred it. Christobelle's countenance betrayed the thoughts of her heart, for Isabel gave her a smiling glance as she gazed upon her; and the annoyances of the journey faded away in the contemplation of her happy, contented position, as she still held Mr. Boscawen's hand, while the babe lay sleeping in her lap.

Miss Boscawen made no remark, by word or look, upon the past and present: her head was thrown more back, and a look of injured innocence pervaded her form and movements; but not a syllable fell from her lips, as she moved in silent dignity to the table, and seated herself to her employments for the day. Neither Isabel nor Mr. Boscawen yet perceived their sister's wounded feelings: they were both watching their child, and enjoying their newly-awakened interest in each other, by disjointed chat on the part of Isabel, and in little, rather awkward, fond civilities on that of Mr. Boscawen. Isabel, too, had gained another step in intimacy and unreserve: she now addressed her husband as "dear Boscawen," which evidently gave intense satisfaction to its object.

"I shall walk round the Castle Hill with my baby when he wakes, dear Boscawen."

A pressure of the hand, and a look of pleased expression, gave Isabel courage, and raised her spirits to nearly their pristine height.

"I dare say you will go with us, dear Boscawen, won't you? and Chrystal will like to see the babe admired all over the town. You shall have plenty of gingerbread-nuts, dear Chrystal: the darling babe will be so admired. I know you will come with us, Boscawen, won't you now?"

Mr. Boscawen gave a grim smile of acquiescence, and accompanied the smile with a corresponding squeeze of the hand.

"I declare, Boscawen, you have hurt my poor little fingers," exclaimed Isabel, with an affected scream.

"Let me examine them," said her husband, trying to gain possession of her hand. Isabel withheld it playfully.

"Oh, no, Boscawen, I declare I gave it you in poor Wetheral chapel: don't you remember how amused I was, and how I laughed when you put on the ring?"

"Would you give it me again as willingly, if we were to renew our vows, Isabel?" asked Mr. Boscawen, with soft seriousness, as he caught her hand, and stroked it with his long unshapely fingers.

"Oh yes, indeed I should now, because you are so good, and I should not know what to do without you. You know you protect me from...." Isabel's voice sunk into a whisper, which reached her husband's ear alone; but her eyes were directed towards Miss Boscawen, who appeared intently occupied with her worsted work. Mr. Boscawen smiled and patted her hand, as if in correction. Isabel went laughingly on.

"I always like people who love me, but I don't know how it is, some persons are not pleasant, though they are kind. Mamma was very kind sometimes, but still, however, I love you, dear Boscawen, very much. I suppose I always liked you, but you frightened me so."

"Frightened you, my love!"

"Oh, yes, you did very much after I was married; you looked so proud and frowning, and then those nasty books! I don't think I quite loved you till you took my part about the cream, and then I did begin in earnest: I thought it so good of you; but when you allowed me to dress my child, oh, then how could I help loving you!" Isabel, under the influence of her feelings, threw her arms round Mr. Boscawen's neck, and burst into tears. The action woke her infant. "There, now, Boscawen dear, we have woke the little darling; how could you let me talk in that way, and do such things! I don't know what was the matter with me."

Isabel, in smiles and tears, began the preparation for her child's comforts. The nurse was summoned, and it was fed before her, as she gazed delightedly at its movements: the face and figure of Isabel received its greatest charm from her maternal solicitude. Her enthusiastic nature was interestingly and beautifully illustrated in the devotion of her heart to this one most loved object, and the insouciance of Isabel Wetheral was buried in the deep love of her offspring. Christobelle never remembered her so captivating as she appeared at this moment, when her attention was engrossed in watching her child. The tears of grateful remembrance were upon her cheek, yet smiles were chasing every emotion from her heart, but those of tenderness and a mother's pride. Mr. Boscawen looked on, enchanted. Isabel, in the fullness of her heart, turned for the first time since her arrival to Miss Boscawen.

"Ah, Tabitha, I am sure you will be one of our party round the Castle Hill, to enjoy my babe's crowing delight. Do put away your work, and join us."

Miss Boscawen did not look up from her work, as she drily replied, "No, thank you, sister."

Mr. Boscawen thought a little promenade would be very pleasant after a long drive, and he joined in his lady's wish that she would attend them.

"No, thank you, brother." Miss Boscawen fixed her eyes pertinaciously upon her work: she sat like a wax figure, motionless, and apparently sightless.

"I am afraid you are ill, Tabitha," observed Isabel. "Do let me order you a glass of wine and a biscuit. A glass of wine, dear Boscawen, would not that do Tabitha good?"

"No, thank you, sister."

"A biscuit, Tabitha."

"No, thank you, brother."

Miss Boscawen's answers to many affectionate inquiries were equally laconic. Something was wrong, but the cause was equally unintelligible to her brother and sister. The walk, however, was to take place, and, if Miss Boscawen would not be prevailed upon to add to the little party, she would, probably, be kind enough to put off dinner another hour. This change in the dinner arrangement was met with perfect assent by Miss Boscawen.

"Certainly, brother."

Mr. Boscawen looked earnestly at his sister; but there was no ripple on the surface of the water, to detect its agitation: the voice was dry in its tones, but the eye was placid, and the manner quiet and composed; one strong symptom betrayed the disease within to her brother, and upon that symptom he spoke.

"Tabitha, you are vexed about something—tell me what it is."

"I am not vexed, brother."

Mr. Boscawen smiled. "I am sure all is not right, Tabitha; you have made no objection to a single plan proposed, since we entered this room, therefore, you are not pleased with some one of us."

"I am not displeased with you, brother."

"Then my wife has unfortunately offended you."

Isabel flew to Miss Boscawen. "I have not offended you, dear Tabitha, have I? No one is ever offended with me long, for I am so sorry to give offence. A thousand pardons, dear Tabitha, if I have unintentionally hurt you, but what could it be?"

"No, sister, you have not offended."

Isabel was free from offence, therefore her thoughts could dwell upon her child; she did not suspect or observe Miss Boscawen's manner.

"Oh, well, then, let us set off, for I am dying to hear my child admired. Now, Chrystal, you are head-nurse, so attend my babe in front, and I will follow with dear Boscawen, to hear and see every body's admiration. Now, Mr. Boscawen, don't let us linger."

Isabel took her husband's hand, and he suffered her to drag him in her lively playful way to the door. Isabel was becoming the happy Isabel of former days rapidly. Her sprightly laugh, at that moment, sounded like the joyous tones which had captivated her husband upon their first acquaintance; she was aware of it herself.

"I declare I am laughing as heartily as I used to do, when we were engaged, dear Boscawen, and you look so like yourself when I first saw you, and when you thought all I did was right."

"I think so now, Isabel," said Mr. Boscawen, drawing her to him, and looking tenderly in her face.

Mr. Boscawen's person and cast of features could never assume a sentimental expression, but Isabel was equally unsentimental herself. If her husband looked kindly, and behaved indulgently, she was happy; and, while her child continued well, eating his meals heartily, and stretching out his little arms at her approach, no sorrow could reach the heart of its devoted mother. Isabel would forget all grief at the cradle of her darling babe, in whatever form it might assail her.

They were sallying forth from the Crown, when a post-chaise drove rapidly through the north gate, and came with speed towards the inn. For a moment they stood still to watch its progress. The horses were panting with fatigue, but they were quickly unharnessed, as a well-known voice called out with energy, "Horses instantly to Brierly." It was Thompson.

Christobelle's fears instantly told her she was to receive a summons from Wetheral, but she had spent three happy months with Isabel, and could not in justice complain of its hurried and unexpected arrival. The last letters, however, from Sir John, had not alluded to any such intention. Mr. Boscawen had a powerful presentiment that something was wrong at Wetheral, and they hurried to the side of the chaise. Christobelle caught Thompson's eye.

"Oh, for ever, and two days! Why, that's Miss Chrystal, as I'm alive! Well, Miss Chrystal, you must please to return with me immediately to Wetheral."

Isabel looked bewildered; Mr. Boscawen inquired after the health of Sir John with much anxiety. He was quite well; but Lady Wetheral was suffering, and required her daughter's immediate presence; she was not to delay an hour. Thompson produced a note written by Lady Wetheral, which was to be put into Christobelle's hand the instant Thompson arrived.

"Dear Bell,

"The moment you receive this set out, without waiting to pack up your things, for I can't be left a moment. I am very ill, and require one person's whole attention. You have led an idle life for twelve years, mousing in your father's study, therefore, your time is come to be a little active. I miss your sisters dreadfully. I am glad Isabel is happy, and I wish I was so, too; but your father is getting extremely methodistical, which distracts me. Don't keep Thompson a moment; you will be here this evening.

"G. Wetheral."

Poor Isabel's day of happiness was changed into mourning, as she stood reading the note over her sister's shoulder. The hope of her heart fell at this announcement into sorrow and disappointment, and they returned into the sitting-room, stunned by the unwelcome summons. Isabel could only lament, and resolve to return home; she threw her arms round Christobelle.

"My dear Chrystal, we have been so happy together! What will my babe do without you; and what will you do without the babe!"

Christobelle sat weeping, but could not reply to Isabel's touching appeals.

"Ah, Chrystal, and what will you do for dear Boscawen's lectures and readings, and when shall we be together again? how you will lament my darling babe! but, Chrystal, don't cry. I know it must be a dreadful blow to leave that darling boy, but I will have his picture taken every month, and send you the old one regularly. I know Boscawen will let me have its picture fresh every month, for he will wish it himself, and you will be so delighted to see its innocent face every month, too. Tell papa I must have you every year, and tell Clara that she will be very happy with Sir Foster, when a child is born. Perhaps she won't like being at her studies, any more than I did, but Sir Foster won't plague her after her child is born; be sure and tell her that, Chrystal."

Miss Boscawen forgot her injuries for the moment, to comfort Christobelle, when the cause of their grief was explained. Her soothings were more useful and bracing to the spirit. She told her that duties were imperious at home; and she assured her that conscience through life would be tranquil under all trials, by the knowledge that we had been obedient and pleasing to our parents, and, by so doing, acceptable before our Maker, whose commandment it was to "honour thy father and thy mother."

"Oh, yes, Tabitha," cried Isabel, earnestly; "Chrystal does not mean to sorrow for being recalled on that account. She feels the loss of the dear child, and I can understand the agony of parting with such a treasure." Isabel took her boy from the nurse's arms, and pressed it to her bosom. "I can tell what you feel, Chrystal, for, if any one took my child from me, I should die on the spot." The very idea of a separation caused Isabel's cheeks to turn deadly pale.

Mr. Boscawen appeared, and advised Christobelle to return with Thompson from Bridgnorth, without giving a thought to her clothes; they should be sent after her. He considered Lady Wetheral's wish peremptory; and, as her anxiety to have her daughter with her was one of Thompson's particular remarks to him, he had ordered horses to be brought out for the Ironbridge; the chaise was at that moment ready, and Thompson only waited for her young lady's presence to return to Wetheral.

The adieus were short. Christobelle was again embraced by Isabel, and received a kind farewell from Miss Boscawen, but she was hurried away by Boscawen, without embracing her little nephew; he feared lest Isabel should suffer by a prolonged view of her regrets. When deposited in the chaise, she saw Isabel nodding and weeping, and waving her hand from the window; her child was placed, too, where Christobelle could see him kicking his little feet, ignorant of his poor aunt's sorrow. Mr. Boscawen said many kind things, which were remembered the following day; but Christobelle could not heed them at the time they were uttered; her eyes and heart were at the window with Isabel. She thought her misery could never be exceeded by any of those trials of after-life, which Miss Boscawen alluded to: her heart was broken—her happiness for ever gone. The chaise moved on, and Thompson tÊte-À-tÊted with her to Wetheral.

The silence was unbroken till the woods of Wetheral roused them into conversation. Thompson would not interfere with her young lady's grief, but allowed her to exhaust its violence in the natural way. Christobelle cried without intermission, till they arrived within a few miles of the castle; and Thompson, probably, was content to remain silent, in pleasing contemplations of her own approaching matrimony. At last she spoke.

"Now, my dear Miss Chrystal, cheer up, and think of all you will have to do. Your mamma will not like a sorrowful face, and she is become very capricious and rough, since Miss Clara married."

"Is mamma angry with Clara?" Christobelle asked, mournfully.

"Oh! for ever, and two days!—angry? not she indeed! but my mistress wants to visit at Ripley—and my master, he won't allow it. She pines very much about it, and gets melancholy; so, as I am engaged to Mr. Daniel, at Hatton, you are to take my place—and a terrible place it will be; for my lady has never spoken to me kindly since I engaged myself to Mr. Daniel, Miss Chrystal."

Christobelle's tears increased at this melancholy picture of her future destiny. Poor Thompson, who always loved her, strove to impart comfort.

"Pray, don't cry so terribly, dear Miss Chrystal, for your papa is always kind and pleasant, and you are such a favourite, you know. My lady, she does give way to whims, as I can testify; but my master, he never was any thing but polite and proper. Mr. Daniel tells me that whims run always in the female line; but he only says that, Miss Chrystal, to plague me."

Christobelle inquired if her father had heard from Anna Maria, or if her sister Julia was still at Bedinfield. Thompson put her finger to her lip with a mysterious air.

"Miss Chrystal, there is something going on there which I can't make out, neither can Mr. Daniel. My lady, she wrote to invite herself to Bedinfield for change of air, after Miss Clara's marriage, and a letter came in reply from the dowager, which I never made out clearly; for my master, he had a long interview with my lady, and nothing was said about it. My lady wept a good deal, but she never spoke to me upon the subject, which I do not take kindly, for I have always been consulted upon family matters; and Heaven knows, Miss Chrystal, how I held forth upon poor Miss Clara's sweet temper, when you know her best mood would turn milk into vinegar!"

"And Anna Maria?"

"Oh! for ever, Miss Chrystal, what a place that Paris is! Mrs. Pynsent, our young lady that was, writes word they are coming home, for they have not eaten an intelligible thing since they quitted Wetheral. Poor young Mr. Pynsent declares a vixen fox roasted and well peppered, would be far better than the ragouts and frogs he has been obliged to eat since he left old England. Mr. Daniel says, the Hatton people have sent them an invitation to return there for a time. Mrs. Pynsent, the old lady, has been very low and poorly since her son married, and she spends almost every other day with Mrs. Hancock."

They turned, at this moment, from the high-road into the Wetheral grounds, and Christobelle was obliged to compose her features and heart into something like external tranquillity. She made fearful efforts to banish Isabel and Brierly from her thoughts; she could not think upon the child whom she loved so dearly. She tried to remember alone her father's precepts, and act upon his often repeated cautions, to begin early in life the important task of sacrificing pleasure to duty, and to pray for strength to act uprightly and obediently to his laws. She did pray at this moment; and her earnest repetition of the prayer which he taught her to offer up daily to her parent in heaven, caused some words to escape which reached Thompson's ear. She turned towards her with quickness.

"Well, for ever and two days, Miss Chrystal, if you are not saying your prayers! Don't let my lady hear you going on so, or she will be angry; she called me a methodist the other day with her own lips, because I said just a few words about Mr. Daniel being a church-going man: and so he is, Miss Chrystal, I assure you."

Christobelle's heart leaped when she saw her father standing upon the lawn, as they drove up the avenue. The happy hours, the quiet delights of his study, his affection for her, his long, solitary readings, while she was absent—all and each pressed upon her mind, and absorbed all thoughts of Brierly. There he stood watching their approach, and smiling upon his child the same benignant smile which ever welcomed her presence into his study: she held out her arms, though she could not reach him; but the chaise stopped, and she was soon in the parental embrace. How was she caressed and welcomed after an absence of three months!

Christobelle thought there was a change in her father; but she was too young to discover or dwell upon the cause. She fancied his manner more grave, and his voice was melancholy; but her attention was attracted to a thousand trifles, and she forgot to gaze upon him. She was listening to all that had occurred in her absence. Christobelle took tea with her father alone, and to him she detailed the happiness she had enjoyed at Brierly; the odd ways of Miss Boscawen, the perfect bliss of Isabel: a smile lighted up his countenance.

"I married Isabel to a good man, and she was certain of happiness: her child is a delightful gift, but her content proceeds from her husband's temper and principles. Isabel is a warm-hearted girl; she must be happy with Boscawen." Christobelle assured him her thoughts were wrapped up in her babe, much more than in Boscawen. Isabel only lived for her child.

"She may think so," replied Sir John, "and you may judge it is so; but when you have lived a little longer, you will both perceive a woman's happiness to depend upon her husband's principles. If he is worthless, she must be miserable; and children increase the misery, if she loves them. Boscawen is a good man, and Isabel is happy. Be careful in your choice, Chrystal."

"Oh! papa, you shall choose for me."

"Very well, my love; if I live, I will be your counsellor; but if your father is taken from you, beware of marrying for any motive of worldly considerations. Marry with esteem; and, if you believe a man to be religious, performing his duties as a son and brother with kindliness and affection, then love him, for he will deserve your affection. Beware of marrying for affluence alone; your fate will be then as Julia's or Clara's fate."

Sir John Wetheral's voice sunk into low, pathetic tones as he concluded, and Christobelle was silent from an awful feeling which stole over her frame, and forbade remark. A tap at the door roused them from the silence of many minutes; it was Thompson with a message from Lady Wetheral, requesting her daughter's presence. Christobelle looked at her father with alarm; her hour was arrived, when the things of this world must no longer appear like a vision of beauty; her life, in future, would be a lengthened chain of annoyances, and she must bend to the destiny which awaited her. She followed Thompson to her mother's apartments, where she had secluded herself since Lady Kerrison's marriage, in terror; but Sir John had smiled upon the movement, and Christobelle could not escape her lot. She was certain of an unpleasant reception, but restrained her tears from flowing. Lady Wetheral was seated near her work-table, upon which six wax-lights stood burning. She looked up.

"Oh! you are come, Bell: there, sit down, for I can't bear any one to come near me, heating the atmosphere. I think you are grown tall and gawky with your visit; it's very odd you should be so much plainer than your sisters. I suppose Isabel is very busy with her boy, poor thing! I hope all her children will be boys; girls are great plagues. Your father will not allow me to see poor dear Clara, and there is no settlement made upon her, which worries me to death. Suppose Sir Foster dies, and Clara should become a widow without any provision; I can't be troubled with any of you again. I can't be annoyed with daughters returning upon me, when I have taken such pains to establish them. I am extremely worried about Clara, and my spirits are sinking fast; not a soul to take care of me. Thompson on the eve of marrying!—nonsensical stuff! Servants, of all people, marrying! Daniel can't settle fifty pounds upon Thompson, and so I tell her, simpleton!"

Christobelle had nothing to offer in the way of consolation; she was always under a spell before her mother. Her tone of voice, too, was irritable, and the fear of offending closed her daughter's lips from answering. Lady Wetheral proceeded.

"You are awkward and dumb as ever, Bell: don't wriggle in your chair, and look so intolerably stupid. I thought Boscawen would have talked or read you into something like ease of manner. I shall be tired to death with your abrupt motions revolving round me. I must make you useful in your influence over your father, Bell; and you must contrive to gain his consent to our visiting at Ripley. Your poor father is become very selfish in many things. I meant to pay a visit of a few weeks to Bedinfield, but the dowager has sent me a letter I can't understand. Your father says the purport of it is to decline my company, but I could see no purport at all. The Pynsents are in France, and I never liked Boscawen; therefore I ought not to be refused my poor Clara's society. This is dreadful seclusion, and I have this little illumination to drive away blue devils. I never see Sir John now; my influence is quite gone."

It was necessary Christobelle should now endeavour to enter into conversation, and assist, as far as lay in her power, to console and amuse the disquietudes of her mother's mind. She, therefore, inquired if it was a true report concerning Anna Maria's return to England.

"Yes, Anna Maria is on the point of returning from Paris, very much against my wishes; she will be only a secondary person at Hatton, and their complaints are very foolish about that fine city. I think every thing has gone wrong since my daughters married; I have not been well or happy since Clara left me, and never shall be again."

"I hope you will, mamma; I will do all I can to please you."

"What can you do?" replied her mother, quickly, and with considerable irritation in her tone; "you are too young to establish, or to think about it these three years; how can you please me? I am declined at Bedinfield by the dowager, who, I am sure, manages her son and his wife, for neither of them added a line to regret my postponement, if it was one; but I could not understand it. My daughter Pynsent cannot ask me to Hatton when she returns; she will be a guest herself. I must not see Clara; and if I did, she has no settlement. What pleasure has accrued to me from their splendid matches?"

None, certainly, as far as Christobelle could judge from her mother's complaints, but surely Brierly was a home of happiness; she told her so.

"Brierly may suit you, Bell, but what amusement would it be to me? Isabel spoiling her figure and disordering her dress, by carrying a heavy child about all day; Miss Boscawen sitting upright like all the generation of old maids; and Boscawen keeping only a pair of horses, and never entertaining the neighbourhood! I should be shocked and distressed all day."

"They were so happy, mamma!"

"I dare say, Bell: so are the pigs when they have clean straw and plenty to eat. I can't fancy any thing but merely animal enjoyments at Brierly."

Who could reply to such determined obliquity of reasoning? Christobelle perceived, indeed, that four splendid matches had failed to produce pleasure to her mother's mind. Each establishment appeared clogged with an evil, which overbalanced their boasted worth and magnificence. Deeply as she coveted, and had laboured for her daughters' wealthy suitors, the affluence of their position could now give no satisfaction. The excitement was over, the objects were attained; and the disadvantages connected with each were now as fluently expatiated upon as were once their glory and their triumph. All this language of complaint, this unexpected and unfounded source of grievance, pained and dispirited Christobelle. It was ceaseless in its flow, and hurtful in its consequences, to herself.

Lady Wetheral's nature and temper was changed in her daughter's eyes: that agreeable fascination of manner, which so often softened away an abrupt expression, was departed; the playful tone of voice and action, which had so long held powerful influence over her husband's mind, was no more. Her ladyship became secluded and irritable, pining over Clara's banishment, regretting the absence of her settlement, and offended at her own banishment from Bedinfield, till it became painful to approach her; and Christobelle's spirits sunk under the confinement and terror of her presence. She became ill; and her father's anxiety sought a remedy for the evils she endured, by issuing a pardon to the errors of Lady Kerrison, and admitting the families to a renewal of its ancient association. This proved the signal for domestic peace.

Lady Wetheral, eager to profit from the permission so tardily bestowed, flew immediately to Ripley: the carriage was at the door in a quarter of an hour after peace had been declared; and she quitted her solitary apartments, in the highest apparent health and spirits. During her absence, Thompson appeared before Christobelle, and begged she would apologize to her lady for a step she felt called upon to take during her lady's absence, for many reasons. Christobelle inquired with surprise to what she alluded.

"Oh, for ever, Miss Chrystal! I think the fashion of runaway matches is coming into vogue at Wetheral. I have had many conversations with my lady; but, really, they have been of so unpleasant a nature, that I must beg to take French leave, as Miss Clara did. Assure her ladyship, if you please, Miss Chrystal, of my sorrow at being obliged to part in this cursory sort of way; but, as I am engaged to marry Mr. Daniel to-morrow morning, it is useless to argue the affair any longer. I hope, Miss Chrystal, you will do me the honour to call upon me, and take tea, some fine Sunday, with us. We shall always be sensible of the attention."

Christobelle stared at Thompson's disclosure; but she was dressed for departure, and appeared anxious to be gone. Christobelle said her mother would miss her services, and who was to succeed her in performing those which Lady Wetheral required? Thompson smiled.

"My dear Miss Chrystal, my lady will not be very much surprised, for I have threatened some time to leave suddenly. I have been baited like a bull, these two months, about Mr. Daniel; and yet, miss, the church enjoins matrimony to servants as well as other people. Mr. Daniel quotes St. Paul, to prove the thing. However, I decline any more controversy; for, my lady, she loses her temper now: therefore, I shall be much obliged by your informing her of this step."

Christobelle gave the required assurance, that she would herself name the affair to her mother; and Thompson, after making her adieus, and repeating the pleasure she should feel in receiving Miss Chrystal to tea, quitted Wetheral and its eventful scenes, to seek a new home, and become the property of Daniel Higgins.

Christobelle was reading with her father a scene in Macbeth, when Lady Wetheral entered. She had returned from Ripley; and the extreme paleness of her countenance, her trembling hands, and quivering lip, announced some fearful accident or event. She laid her hand upon her husband's shoulder, and looked in his face, but did not utter a word. Sir John grasped her hands, and bade her be composed; but his lady's distress prevented all utterance for some moments: at length, a deep sob relieved her, and she spoke in hurried accents—

"John—the brute has beaten her!"

Sir John feared his lady's intellects were shaken by some horrible accident: he again took both her hands, and seated her, beseeching her to gain calmness, and explain the cause of her agitation. Lady Wetheral placed her hand upon her heart, and wept for some time in silence. It was distressing to look upon her, suffering, without possessing a knowledge of its cause, or being able to soothe its violence. A pause ensued, till the paroxysm of weeping relieved her heart, and enabled her to account for the extraordinary emotion. She took her husband's hand, and spoke in broken sentences.

"John, I did not believe Sir Foster's temper was so bad as people represented—I did not think he would use Clara ill; or, indeed, John, she should never have entered Ripley, to be treated like his spaniel—oh, John!"

"Tell me, at once, Gertrude, what you mean," said her husband, calmly.

"I went to Ripley, John, to give my daughter the delightful information of your having overlooked her little fault; and I entered the sitting-room, where Clara and Sir Foster were quarrelling, oh, so dreadfully!—I was exceedingly shocked—I did not think a daughter of mine would ever quarrel as Clara did, with her husband—it was so underbred—so very vulgar! Sir Foster swore he would kick Clara, if she persevered in her assertion—it was all about a wretched fishmonger.—Clara persisted, and my child was knocked down before my eyes—I saw my beautiful Clara upon the ground; her features swollen, and her dear face crimson. Oh, John, I never saw such a scene!"

Lady Wetheral again wept, and proceeded brokenly to describe her feelings and continue her account.

"I never felt so distressed and shocked in my life! I had always inculcated the propriety of commanding their temper into my daughters' minds. I always laid great stress upon the bad taste of making scenes for servants to report and comment upon. I am sure I lectured my girls by the hour, on the necessity of keeping up appearances, and avoiding scenes—public scenes—which the neighbourhood must ridicule. I cannot bear that Clara should become an object of ridicule. What will Mrs. Pynsent say? Nothing can equal my shocked feelings. I told Sir Foster, he was a brute, too disgusting and monstrous for remark or notice from me; and I assured Clara, her violence of temper had done little credit to my instructions, and ruined her appearance most cruelly. My observations were of no avail; Clara persisted in asserting the odious fishmonger was right in his charges, as she raised herself from the ground, and another blow was struck. Oh, John, I left my child bleeding on the ground—neither of them listened to me, or replied to me. What can be done to hush up this dreadful scene, for my cries brought in three footmen? Oh, John, what is to be done?"

Her ladyship's tears again flowed copiously.

"I will go, instantly, to Ripley," said Sir John, seriously, but calmly. "Chrystal, my love, be ready to accompany me in ten minutes."

"I shall want Bell to talk to, my love—don't take that great girl with you, every where."

"I particularly wish to point out to my daughter's notice the misery and crime of connecting herself with a man whose only virtue is the possession of riches, Gertrude. Make haste, Chrystal; the carriage will be round in ten minutes."

Christobelle flew to her room, and prepared to accompany her father. When she returned to the study, it was empty. Lady Wetheral had returned to her apartments, and Thompson was no longer there to receive and assist her. Christobelle was on the point of ascending the stairs, to make known her flight, but the carriage was already at the door, and her father called for her. She entered the carriage as her mother's bell rang furiously, but time was too precious for delay; the order was given, and they proceeded towards Ripley with rapidity.