"Sister," however, was for once resolved to persist; she could not relinquish the delightful amusement.
"Tabitha, I have not washed my child; I am only putting on his dear little clothes."
"Oh! sister, you are very wrong; you suffered by that cream which I begged you not to touch, and now I must insist upon your lying down; what will my brother say?"
"Mr. Boscawen will not object to seeing me dress my little boy," replied Isabel.
"Oh! sister, he will indeed. My brother is not aware how you fatigue yourself. Nurse, pray take the infant from your mistress."
Isabel became nervous, and the baby began to cry with all its might. Miss Boscawen was certain he was nearly strangled by tight strings.
"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!"