Miss Boscawen stood at the drawing-room window, with a parasol in her hand.
"Oh, but, sister, that is wrong: the child will be bitten all over with flies. Miss Wetheral, my dear, bring your sister in."
"Tabitha, here are no flies, I assure you. Don't insist upon my leaving this shady place!" exclaimed Isabel, beseechingly.
"Oh, sister, the heat! What will my brother say? Oh, brother, I am glad you are come, for sister is doing very foolishly."
"What is Isabel doing?" asked Mr. Boscawen, quickly.
"Sister is quite in a draught, brother; and the poor child must be all over insects and flies!"
Mr. Boscawen joined his lady. He stood for some moments contemplating Isabel, who sat in a low rustic chair, gently rocking the sleeping babe on her lap. She smiled as she met his eye.
"Mr. Boscawen, I know you are come to take my part. You won't insist upon my leaving this shady seat, will you?"
"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.