"When a mother plots for a son-in-law, and her daughter acts upon it, besides implicating a young married sister, under promises of secrecy, it is time to take steps towards withdrawing from such society. I had every intention of leaving Wetheral next week, but now I shall set off to-morrow, at twelve o'clock; therefore, Isabel, give your maid orders accordingly." Mrs. Boscawen's distress was too violent to be controlled. "Oh, Mr. Boscawen, how can you take me away to horrible Brierly so suddenly!--how can you frighten me, and threaten to leave Wetheral before our month is quite over! I shall never be confined at all, I'm sure, and Clara will be so angry!" Isabel sat down, overcome with terror. Mr. Boscawen patiently and kindly explained his line of conduct to his terrified wife. He assured her no notice would be taken of her disclosure, and that no one should suspect the cause of his departure. He expressed his disgust at Clara's conduct, but he was silent upon the abhorrence he conceived to the untired manœuvring of the mother. He trusted Isabel would become attached to Brierly in the course of time; it was a safer home than the infected air of Wetheral; and, after her confinement, if she fancied change of air, he would take her to the sea. Mr. Boscawen's observations, in some measure, pacified the extreme grief of Isabel; but her night's rest was gone, and she was extremely feverish in the morning, complaining of painful oppression and headache. Mr. Boscawen was fearful his young wife might suffer from the complicated effects of fear and dislike to returning home; but he was resolved in his purpose: nothing now could alter his determination to carry his lady from Wetheral. He announced his intention openly at breakfast, and Lady Wetheral's polite expression of sorrow fell from her lips upon a cold and barren soil: no flowers rose under her gracious shower of compliments. "My dear Mr. Boscawen, you surprise and grieve me by your resolution: the absence of Isabel and yourself will throw a deep gloom around us." "I am obliged to you," quietly replied Mr. Boscawen, as he buttered his piece of dry toast. "Losing three daughters at one fell swoop, is a severe trial," continued her ladyship. "I shall miss my dear Isabel every hour." Mr. Boscawen deigned no reply; but Isabel, pale and without appetite, sat dissolved in tears, and dared not trust her voice: she feared to displease her husband by any manifestation of grief, but her heart was sinking under the fearful anticipations of Miss Tabitha, and the gloomy routine of Brierly. "I suppose Sir John is in his study," observed Mr. Boscawen, rising at the conclusion of breakfast. "Oh, yes, Sir John breakfasts at seven o'clock, when people are, or ought to be, fast asleep. I can't comprehend such ungenial hours and taste. Surely, if breakfast is ended before eleven o'clock, there is sufficient leisure for the affairs of life."