"No, my love, I am going to enjoy it with you." Mr. Boscawen seated himself on the turf, at Isabel's feet. Christobelle could not help thinking of the fairy tale which described Beauty and the Beast. It was exemplified in the forms before her. Isabel, so young and delicate, sat like a fairy, graceful in every movement, bending over her child, smiling, and delighting to be free from her sister-in-law's power. Boscawen, gaunt, tall, and unlovely, lay extended near her, smiling grimly. Miss Boscawen saw her alarms were unheeded. "Oh, brother, you are wrong. Sister will be very poorly, and you are on the damp grass yourself--oh, brother!" It was a useless lamentation: the little party remained long and happily seated under the mulberry-tree; and Isabel, grateful for her husband's sanction, became less reserved in his presence. In time, she even sought his society, and the infant was ever a bond of union and affection between them. Christobelle did not think the gay, thoughtless Isabel would have become such a fond, anxious mother, so devoted to her child, so active as a nurse. And yet, why was she surprised? Had not Isabel warm affections, and was she not the favourite at Wetheral; always kind and conciliating, always gentle and beloved? Mr. Boscawen's age and manners chilled Isabel's heart by his anxiety to bestow attainments upon a mind which disliked application; but her child was sure to call forth every particle of her affectionate heart; its daily wants, its helplessness, made her useful in the way she best loved. There was no more dull schooling for Isabel to pine over--no more lectures from Mr. Boscawen to urge her forward against her inclination, and perhaps against her capacity. Another object had entered upon the scene, to engross and charm each parent. Isabel never wearied in watching her babe; her dislike to work chair-covers and footstools, under Miss Boscawen's surveillance, was now succeeded by a taste for baby-clothes; and the quickness with which she acquired from the nurse the mystery of cutting out, and shaping materials, proved that an object alone was needed to call forth her energies. Mr. Boscawen was content to see his lady so employed; the schoolmaster gave way to the parent; and he was no longer distressed by his young wife's thoughtless speeches. How could Isabel talk unadvisedly, when her only subject embraced the nursery department? How could she alarm her husband's nice perceptions in conversation, when all her thoughts rested in one absorbing interest--on one dear and mutual object of earthly pleasure?