So ran on the happy, gay-hearted Isabel, perfectly blind to Lady Wetheral's agony of mind, and her efforts to turn the conversation into other hands. Miss Spottiswoode and Miss Wycherly encouraged Isabel's ingenuous and indiscreet powers of chat. "Chrystal," repeated her ladyship, "I am pining for coffee." "No, no, I vow you shall not approach the bell," cried Isabel, arresting Christobelle's hand as she prepared to obey the hint. "My dear mamma, don't be thirsty yet, I have so much to say. Do you know I have only recovered my old spirits within these four days, and they will expire again the moment I set off for Brierly. If you ring for coffee, Mr. Boscawen will rise up before me like Samuel at the Witch of Endor's call, which I read this morning to him." "Do you really read a chapter every morning, besides studying arts and sciences?" asked Miss Wycherly, seating herself on a stool beside Isabel. "Now, girls, form a circle, and listen to Mrs. Boscawen's prospectus of married education." "Prospectus!" replied Isabel, laughing--"Heaven knows what that is; but, now you are all listening, I will tell you every thing. What merry faces! I wish Mr. Boscawen would let me fill Brierly with such faces, and allow us to scamper over the park and feed the deer. I got old John, one day, to--" "Who is old John?" said Miss Spottiswoode, who formed the centre of the circle. "The butler, my dear, the old butler.--I wish Mr. Boscawen would let me do exactly as I like. Ah, Julia, Lord Ennismore is not so old as Mr. Boscawen, so he will be so good-natured!--As to dear Tom Pynsent, I know he will let Anna Maria dance from morning till night. Mr. Boscawen says married women cannot be too grave, but he never told me so till I was married. Mr. Boscawen loves Chrystal; that's one thing, therefore, she will return with us to that horrible Brierly. Mamma, we are going to run away with Chrystal." "Are you, Mrs. Boscawen?" Her ladyship spoke languidly, as though she was resigned to the endurance of all evils, till her son-in-law should appear. "Oh yes. Mr. Boscawen told me he should take away my sister Chrys. She is twelve years old, now; quite a companion, he says, for me, if I ever have half her application--that, I'm sure, I never shall have. Old John told me--" The door opened and disclosed the gaunt figure of Mr. Boscawen, approaching in the dignity of extreme height, and large, bushy eyebrows. He walked slowly and silently towards his young wife, and stationed himself at the back of her chair. Isabel became mute. "You are early, Mr. Boscawen," observed Lady Spottiswoode. "We were in the first burst of remarks sacred to our sex." "Make me a participator," he replied, smiling. "Never," replied Miss Wycherly. "We have too much freemasonry to admit you behind the scenes." "My wife hears no conversation, Miss Wycherly, which her husband may not share, I presume?"