Nothing, perhaps, marked the confirmed husband in Basil more than these hidden fears and reluctances.
In the mean time Isabel ignorantly abandoned herself to the charm of the place, which she found unimpaired, in spite of the reported ravages of improvement about Niagara.

Goat Island was still the sylvan solitude of twelve years ago, haunted by even fewer nymphs and dryads than of old.
The air was full of the perfume that scented it at Prospect Park; the leaves showered them with shade and sun, as they drove along.

"If it were not for the children here," she said, "I should think that our first drive on Goat Island had never ended." She sighed a little, and Basil leaned forward and took her hand in his.
"It never has ended; it's the same drive; only we are younger now, and enjoy it more." It always touched him when Isabel was sentimental about the past, for the years had tended to make her rather more seriously maternal towards him than towards the other children; and he recognized that these fond reminiscences were the expression of the girlhood still lurking deep within her heart.
She shook her head.

"No, but I'm willing the children should be young in our place.

It's only fair they should have their turn." She remained in the carriage, while Basil visited the various points of view on Luna Island with the boy and girl.