"There, sister, you have hurt him; the tapes are tied too tightly, I dare say. How can you dress a babe, sister, when you never had one before? Nurse, take the poor infant." A passion of tears weakened Isabel beyond all that the mere dressing of her babe could produce. Miss Boscawen became alarmed, and she ceased all further expostulation. Mr. Boscawen, who never remained long absent from his wife and child, at this moment entered the room. Isabel sobbed out: "Mr. Boscawen!" "Here I am, my love. What has discomposed you? I am afraid you are feverish." Mr. Boscawen seated himself in the nurse's chair, and felt Isabel's pulse; he looked very grave. "My dear Isabel, this pulse won't do. Nurse, what has caused this fever?" "Tabitha won't let me dress my child, Mr. Boscawen," sobbed Isabel, clasping her hands, and looking heart-broken. "Give your mistress her child, nurse. My dear Isabel, you shall dress it whenever you please. Dress it now, my love, and let me see how maternally you can handle your infant." Mr. Boscawen took his boy from the nurse, and placed it in Isabel's arms. Delighted with the action, and feeling the kindness of her husband's manner, Isabel almost involuntarily kissed Mr. Boscawen's hand. "Oh! brother, you are very wrong," exclaimed Miss Boscawen, looking anxiously at Isabel, whose delight was unbounded. "A mother is performing a laudable and pleasing duty, Tabitha, when she nurses and fondles her child." "Ah! but, brother, you are very wrong. Sister will be quite low and ill this evening. I foretold that cream business, brother." What could Miss Boscawen do? Isabel continued to play with her child, and her brother authorised the deed; nay, he was watching his wife's movements with earnest and pleased attention. Her authority was of no avail, since her brother sanctioned such very improper exertions; she could only sigh, and resign herself to her own duties--the worsted frame, and ordering dinner.