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It was the second time Mrs. Harcourt had asked this question. Grace was gratified by this symptom.

“Indeed, ma’am,” she replied, “I did make bold to tell Master Herbert, that I was afraid you would hear him jumping and making such an uproar up and down the stairs; but to be sure, I did not say a word to the young ladies–as Mad. de Rosier was by, I thought she knew best.”

A gentle knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Grace’s charitable animadversions.

“Bless me, if it isn’t the young ladies! I’m sure I thought they were gone out in the coach.”

As Isabella and Matilda came up to the side of their mother’s bed, she said, in a languid voice–

“I hope, Matilda, my dear, you did not stay at home on my account–Is Isabella there? What book has she in her hand?”

“Zeluco, mamma–I thought, perhaps, you would like to hear some more of it–you liked what I read to you the other day.”

“But you forget that I have a terrible headache–Pray don’t let me detain either of you, if you have any thing to do for Mad. de Rosier.”

“Nothing in the world, mamma,” said Matilda; “she is gone to take Herbert and Favoretta to Exeter Change.”

No farther explanation could take place, for, at this instant, Mrs. Grace introduced Dr. X—-. Now Dr. X—- was not one of those complaisant physicians who flatter ladies that they are very ill when they have any desire to excite tender alarm.

After satisfying himself that his patient was not quite so ill as Mrs. Grace had affected to believe, Dr. X—- insensibly led from medical inquiries to general conversation: he had much playful wit and knowledge of the human heart, mixed with a variety of information, so that he could with happy facility amuse and interest nervous patients, who were beyond the power of the solemn apothecary.

The doctor drew the young ladies into conversation by rallying Isabella upon her simplicity in reading a novel openly in her mother’s presence; he observed that she did not follow the example of the famous Serena, in “The Triumphs of Temper.” “Zeluco!” he exclaimed, in an ironical tone of disdain: “why not the charming ‘Sorrows of Werter,’ or some of our fashionable hobgoblin romances?”

Isabella undertook the defence of her book with much enthusiasm–and either her cause, or her defence, was so much to Dr. X.—-‘s taste, that he gradually gave up his feigned attack.

After the argument was over, and every body, not excepting Mrs. Harcourt, who had almost forgotten her headache, was pleased with the vanquished doctor, he drew from his pocket-book three or four small cards; they were tickets of admittance to Lady N—-‘s French reading parties.

Lady N—- was an elderly lady, whose rank made literature fashionable amongst many, who aspired to the honour of being noticed by her. She was esteemed such an excellent judge of manners, abilities, and character, that her approbation was anxiously courted, more especially by mothers who were just introducing their daughters into the world. She was fond of encouraging youthful merit; but she was nice, some thought fastidious, in the choice of her young acquaintance.

Mrs. Harcourt had been very desirous that Isabella and Matilda should be early distinguished by a person, whose approving voice was of so much consequence in fashionable as well as in literary society; and she was highly flattered by Dr. X—-‘s prophecy, that Isabella would be a great favourite of this “nice judging” lady–“Provided,” added he, turning to Isabella, “you have the prudence not to be always, as you have been this morning, victorious in argument.”

“I think,” said Mrs. Harcourt–after the doctor had taken his leave–“I think I am much better–ring for Grace, and I will get up.”

“Mamma,” said Matilda, “if you will give me leave, I will give my ticket for the reading party to Mad. de Rosier, because, I am sure, it is an entertainment she will like particularly–and, you know, she confines herself so much with us–“