There was nothing more to be said. Isabel looked upon every thing connected with Mr. Boscawen _en couleur de rose_, and her imagination pictured Brierly as a home of enchantment. She believed her days were to glide away among rural sports and in juvenile assemblies--the summer would be dedicated to haymaking and gathering roses--the winter would be a continuity of music and dancing. If her father's remarks chased the smile from her lips, as he alluded to scenes of duty and the cares of a family, they were speedily recalled by Lady Wetheral's enumeration of the comforts which must attach to her situation. "My dear Isabel, your father alarms you; but, trust me, there is nothing alarming in matrimony. You will have a large settlement, and a handsome allowance, therefore every thing will go smoothly. If you have a family, it won't much inconvenience you. Shut out the nurseries with baize doors, and you will be free from noise. I managed very well, for sometimes I did not see or hear you children for weeks." Mr. Boscawen was admitted as an accepted lover, and Isabel did not regret her acceptance of a man who listened with admiration and interest to her remarks, and who never turned from her _brusquerie_ with the disgust her mother could not conceal towards her. Mr. Boscawen at five and forty looked with delight upon Isabel, whose extreme youth and beauty threw a halo around her uneducated mind. Her rich and joyous laugh pleased the taciturn nature of his mind; he was charmed by her innocence, and untired by her ceaseless prattle; therefore was Mr. Boscawen her constant and loved companion, whom her eye sought in all companies and at all moments, and to whom her inmost thoughts were communicated. She loved to hang upon his arm, and take long walks with her darling Boscawen; she delighted to drive his tilbury, and exhibit the cloak of long promise--to chat freely, and, as she expressed it in confidence to Julia, to rattle away about nothing, and be just as much admired, as though she spoke sense, like Anna Maria. Isabel's wedding-day was to herself a day of extravagant enjoyment and agreeable confusion. She was going to a home of her own--to be called in future "Mrs. Boscawen," and to receive the compliments of the bridal-party. There was a large company to breakfast, and the Spottiswoodes were of the chosen number who had the pleasure of congratulating Isabel upon her magnificent prospects. Isabel thanked Miss Spottiswoode for her friendly wishes. "Now, I am married, dear Sophy, I wish you were all going to do the same thing. I should so have liked four or five weddings at once! but you will all come and see me, and we will have such merriment; won't we, Mr. Boscawen?" Mr. Boscawen bowed smilingly to Isabel's appeal, and she proceeded--