"I cannot bear to see you weep, Isabel;" and Mr. Boscawen hung tenderly over his wayward wife. "You will do yourself an injury." Isabel had sufficient acuteness or instinct to perceive the source of her temporary power, and she employed the moment to advantage. Her sobs increased in vehemence. "I only wished to--to wear--one little white feather--at my sister's wedding to-morrow--and you refused me, Mr. Boscawen." "Did I, Isabel? Cease this sobbing, and you shall have the feather; do, my love. You shall wear a plume, only be tranquil; as many feathers as you please, Isabel, only cease weeping." Mr. Boscawen drew his sobbing wife upon his knee, and fondled her, like an infant in the arms of its nurse. "I only wish for two feathers, Mr. Boscawen; one to play easily, and a long thing to droop." "You shall have them, Isabel; now lay down your little head on my shoulder." Isabel sank upon her husband's shoulder like a wayward child fatigued with its own efforts; her sobbing gradually subsided, and a low murmuring noise succeeded, which again softened into sighs. Christobelle quitted the Boscawens to return into the drawing-room. Isabel had gained her point, and the feather was won. How Christobelle's young heart gloried in the scene which presented itself to her view the eventful morning of her sister's marriage! A large and well-dressed company filled the great drawing-room to overflowing; and Christobelle's eye traversed the apartment, resting upon each group, as they offered themselves to her attention. She saw Anna Maria pale as when her heart pined under love unrequited, hanging upon her father's arm, while her lover stood near her, even more red-faced and happy than in his day of acceptance. Julia sat composed between her bridesmaids, Miss Wycherly and Miss Spottiswoode. Lady Ennismore was standing immediately behind her, leaning on her son's arm. Isabel, bright and sparkling, was closely attended by Mr. Boscawen; the plume so long coveted, waving gracefully in her blue silk hat. Mrs. Pynsent was there, full of happy importance, evidently taking command of all proceedings, and untired with gazing upon Tom, her only son, now on the point of leaving England, full dressed for his journey--large, loud, and good-looking. The Tyndals were grouped with the Kerrisons and Clara. Sir Foster stood silent and absent, winking his left eye with a nervous motion, which produced an extraordinary effect.