The next day's post brought a letter from Mrs. Boscawen: its contents were most cheering. "She was very anxious Christobelle should know how beautiful her darling babe was growing, and that it had outgrown its first pinafores. Boscawen was quite as fond of the darling as she could possibly be herself, and Christobelle would be amused by seeing him nurse it to sleep, while she tamboured its little frock. Miss Tabitha was gone to stay a few weeks at Worcester, with Mrs. Ward, and there was no one now at Brierly to alarm her with heat, and cold, with drinking too little, or eating too much. She was perfectly happy with her dear Boscawen, nursing and laughing all day long--no books--no lectures. Oh, if Chrystal could but see her _now_!" A postscript, in Mr. Boscawen's hand-writing, was equally valuable, and gave deep satisfaction to Sir John Wetheral. These were his words:-- "I have lived many years in seclusion, and in the dull misery of a long bachelorship; but I am repaid by a happiness, too fondly valued to describe. The remainder of my life will pass in making an innocent and exemplary wife and mother, as happy as mortality will allow, and poor human nature can enjoy. "Yours faithfully, "C. BOSCAWEN." It was grateful happiness to Sir John Wetheral, to reflect upon the destiny of Isabel. Boscawen's age was an unpromising opening to the fortunes of a young creature attached to juvenile pleasures, and averse to the restraints of tuition: but Sir John judged that the high principles of the man to whom he should commit the welfare of his child, would be the safeguard of her happiness. The atmosphere of Wetheral was unfavourable to mental culture. At Brierly, the society of her husband would enrich Isabel's mind with stores from his own deep resources; and her heart would become refined and exalted by Boscawen's strict integrity of thought and action. He had judged rightly. Isabel loved Boscawen for his kindness of heart; and the birth of her infant knit their feelings together, in one dear object of continually increasing solicitude, which would not dissolve again. Anna Maria was happy, also, with her honest and affectionate Tom Pynsent; but what was to be the hope of Clara?--clouds and darkness rested upon it.