"Oh, Bell, I'm ashamed of you!--your pretty aunt, too--oh, fie! My dear Tommy, don't touch mamma's glass. No, no wine, Tommy--papa says no. A few strawberries, my dear little boy, and a biscuit, but no wine." Tommy, however, advanced his mother's wineglass to his lips, watching her countenance with a cunning glance. "Now, my little, good Tommy, mamma will be angry, very angry, if you do what she tells you not to do. Bell, my love, go to your aunt, like a good girl." Isabel took some pains to persuade her little girl to raise her head, but her appeals were useless. In the mean time, Tommy had silently quaffed the remainder of the contents of her glass. Mr. Boscawen rose, and took him from Isabel's knee. "My dear Boscawen, what are you going to do with Tommy? he is very good with me, my love." "I am going to banish him, Isabel, for disobedience." "Oh, my dear Boscawen, it was the least little drop of wine in the world! it was scarcely a teaspoonful--pray don't punish Tommy for that little drop, my love." "The disobedience was the same in the action, Isabel. I shall send him into the nursery. I shall take him there myself." Isabel's eyes suffused, as Mr. Boscawen left the dining-room with the crying recreant Tommy. She turned to her sister. "Oh! Chrystal, was it not severe to carry away that dear child, for one drop of wine only?" "Boscawen was quite right, my dear Isabel." "Do you really think so? Do you really think he was right to banish the darling child, when it was such a pretty, coaxing trick? Did you see his little, cunning, dear eyes?" "Boscawen justly thinks, Isabel, that cunning habits and disobedience will increase, if it is not checked." "Oh! I hope it won't increase--dear child--I should be sorry to see him grow sly." Mr. Boscawen returned. "My love, did Tommy cry? Was he very much hurt--poor dear? Did you leave him crying?" "My dear Isabel, you have brought this upon him, by not checking disobedience in the first instance. You have allowed the child twice to steal your wine." "My dear Boscawen--steal! indeed, that sounds dreadful! I hope my children will never steal! It was indeed my fault! Poor, dear child!--I dare say he is crying dreadfully now. Let me beg for my child, Boscawen." "Let him remain where he is, Isabel: he has been very naughty." "But I have taught him to steal, and I ought to suffer for him, dear Boscawen. Let me go to my child, my love!" The tears stood in Isabel's eyes, and Boscawen was still under their influence. He soothed his lady as fondly as when in earlier days she wept for the drooping ostrich feather. "My dear Isabel, when we retire into the drawing-room, your child shall come down again. Don't weep, my love. I cannot wonder at your fondness, but he was very naughty. Wait a few moments, Isabel, and the child shall join us in the drawing-room. Don't let me see you weep--stay, I will bring him down to you."