ing forth from his knapsack the fragrant fruit,
taste and be refreshed by the very smell. As the
pleasing nuts disappear beneath his undaunted
charge, so disappears his every fear, and fatigue
yields to plenty; he rises at the beating tattoo-
and rises a braver man, a hero for new conflicts.

We have an admiration for the humble proprie-
tress of the apple and candy stall; we deem her a
benefactress, and liken her in our day-dreams to
the mother goddess, Cybele dispensing the fruits of
the ground alike in price to the rich, and to the

THERE is a philosophy in eating peanuts, although the author of Puffer Hopkins has not as yet discovered it, and there is also madness in this philoso. phy and method in the madness. Who would not believe this assertion, should watch the quiet and soothing effect of this insignificant fruit upon the human mind-upon the pulse of mortal feeling. We have seen a man irritated at the cast of un. lucky dice, loose his last two shillings and six pence, curse the moment when he made his debut on this rascally globe of revolutions and evolutions, when, feeling in some neglected corner, he discov-poor. We have watched the little stand at morn, ers some trifling amount as a consolation to his wounded pocket-his eyes glisten at the sight of the hidden treasure; he asks a half-muttered question, and then his wandering eyeballs fix their powers of vision upon an apple stand. With a sudden bound he displays to the humble shopwoman his fragment of a fortune-he pockets his measure of peanuts-the measure of his wants is filled, and the gambler is happy! We have seen the soldier, "tired of war's alarms," girt with the arms of his country, rest his weary limbs beneath the grateful shade of the Battery trees, and draw

and have seen the busy drove of the young and
blooming democracy, exert their budding mercan-
tile ingenuity in bartering the glistening coin for
the measured candy, the glowing pippin or the
tasteful ground nut. And at the close there comes
another class whose boisterous mirth supplants the
merry laugh of the juvenile customers, and when
the theatres close she hurrics homeward to count
her loose change.-Sun. Mer.

Why is a dog's tail like the heart of a tree ?---
Because it is the farthest from the bark!

TALES.

From Godey's Lady's Book.
"TRIALS."

BY MRS. MARY II. PARSONS.

It was a summer night, with scarcely breeze enough to stir into music the drooping branches of many a stately old tree, whose graceful boughs, heavy with green foliage, swept downward over an open window. Near to it, on a couch, lay one whose days upon the earth were numbered. Many years had passed over the whitened head of Walter Ellerslie, years in which life's mingled web of good and ill had purified the heart for the home to which it was fast hastening. As he lay there all silent and motionless, his eye alone indicated the anxious thoughts that filled his mind; it wandered often from its saddened look upon the old trees he had loved from his boyhood, to the fair face of his motherless child, and thoughts of the earth were in that long, heavy, mournful gaze.

"Has he come, Lucy, my child?" he said feebly.

Before she could answer the question, the sound of carriage wheels broke the stillness of the night, and sent a flush to the brow of the dying man.His eyes rested upon the door with a glance of eager expectation, that grew in painful intensity every moment. When it opened, a gleam of joy shot from the unnaturally bright orbs, as he exclaimed to the gentleman who entered" Edward Mordaunt! I knew your father's son would never fail me."

The person thus addressed, took the proffered hand with something of coldness, visible even through his evidently subdued manners. He bowed, and said-" I am ready to fulfil my father's engagement."

"Now-it must be now," said Mr. Ellerslie; "the sands of my life run low; there is no time for delay or ceremony. The clergyman is already in the house; let him be summoned."

Mordaunt touched the bell to which he pointed, and then resumed his position at the foot of the bed.

an orphan under the guardianship of her brother,
and dependent upon him. She loved Walter Ell-
erslie, and opposition to her inclinations, with much
severity towards her, drove her into the rash meas-
ure of eloping with her lover, who bore her proudly
to his home beyond the sea. He was not, however,
independent of his father, whose republican pride
was outraged at his son's condescending to run
away with any man's daughter, when, in the
father's opinion, he was equal to the proudest lady
of either land. It would be difficult to say which
of the two felt most displeasure, the sturdy demo-
crat or the more aristocratic brother, whose heart
was bitter with disappointment that his fair and
beautiful, and well-descended sister, should wed a
man who could neither grace her beauty with a
coronet nor increase its splendor with the lavish
adornings of great wealth.

by one who had moulded her young mind in many things after his own. Yet with sad thoughts and sorrowful forebodings, did Walter Ellerslie look forward to this marriage. He felt he had done wrongly, yea, rashly, in taking the future destiny of two human beings into his own fallible hands. He was well advised of all Mordaunt's views, through a source on which he could rely, and he trembled for the fate of his young daughter, whom he had nurtured so tenderly. Full surely, if his error was great, his punishment was also; the latter years of his life were clouded, and their brightness turned to sorrow by the memory of that early promise. Still he adhered to it,it was made to the dead, and, in his view, to recede from it was impossible. He refrained from all communication with Mordaunt, in the constant hope that he would come forward voluntarily. Not so; things reThe young husband, made acquainted with his mained as they had been, when Mr. Ellerslie's sudfather's state of feelings towards him, shrank from den illness brought matters to a speedy termination exposing his wife to the equivocal welcome that Mordaunt was summoned, and ere the lamp of awaited her in the home of his childhood; he glad-life went out, it witnessed the fulfilment of a proMr. Ellerslie motioned his child to his side. Asly accepted the urgent invitation of Mr. Mordaunt she knelt down there, he threw his arm over her, to live with him, and pursue his profession in and said, fondly-"I shall not leave you alone, city. Thither they went, and for three Lucy; this is Mr. Mordaunt; and, Edward, this years, Walter Ellerslie and his young wife found is my daughter." a happy home with this faithful friend and his gentle and lovely lady. The Mordaunts had but one child, a son--the same already introduced to the reader. He was eight years of age at the time "our Lucy" was born; and then the fathers, encouraged by the smiling sanction of the mothers, promised these children to one another, and engaged that the one who lived longest, if the parties were of suitable age, should see their engagement fulfilled. On his dying bed, Mr. Mordaunt had wrung from his reluctant son a promise, that when called upon by Mr. Ellerslie, he would marry his daughter. It cost Edward Mordaunt much to make it; but his father had been gentle, patient, and faithful with him all his life; then a memory haunted him, a memory of a soft voice that still seemed sounding in his car, of a love that had lighted up all the brightest and happiest moments of his existence. It is true, she was "low in the gave" now, but she had pleaded with him to obey his father; and it is matter of question which influ. enced him most, the dying father or the dead mother. Three years passed away, and no requirement was made for Mordaunt; he mingled among men, and planted his foot firmly on the threshold of life, as one who meant to go up. The memory of his promise grew dim; in the excitement and earnest pursuit of his profession, he had well nigh forgotten that he was bound. So he felt it, and many a bitter thought linked darkly in his mind with the name of Lucy Ellerslie. Through all his carly youth and graver manhood, his father had kept it perpetually before him; it was most injudicious; and when all mention of it ceased, on the death of Mr. Mordaunt, the sense of relief was inexpressibly great. He ceased to think about it; he hoped he night never hear of it again.

There was something appealing in the old man's tone, but it did not seem to move the person he addressed; he only bowed his head, glanced for one moment where she knelt, and as instantly averted his eye. The clergyman entered, and they stood side by side to be made one. The same inmobility of feature characterized Mordaunt through. out the brief, but most solemn ceremony; his voice did not vary a tone, or his dark, bright eye droop for one moment upon the trembling girl by his side. The color came and went upon her check; her lips quivered, and her eyes filled so full of moisture, that their long silken fringes scemed heavy with the dews of night, yet she wept not. She under stood how it was, with all a woman's instinctive knowledge of the truth; it needed no voice to tell her she was unloved, and that a cold, unwilling heart held on its measured beatings in the midst of the tumultuous agony of her own.

"What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder," the invalid heard, and a light spread over his face, that seemed for a moment to give token of life again. "Thank God," he murmured, softly, "I have kept my promise." "And I nine," said Mordaunt; he spake it bitterly, and left the room. Perhaps it was the tones of that voice, or perchance it was that things of earth had cumbered too much the parting spirit, but during all that long night, a heavy and settled dejection came over the mind of Mr. Ellerslie, and it left him not until the gray light of early dawn struggled feebly into his chamber; his eye caught it, and he murmured-"I go!" A smile of love and of assured forgiveness gleamed for a moment over his face, and was gone forever!

Many years before the period at which our story opens, Mr. Ellerslie and the father of 'Edward Mordaunt were school companions, and as time progressed, college mates together. A friendship of unusual warmth and strength sprung up between them. Ellerslie parted from his friend to go abroad; he spent many years in travel, and cre he returned, he loved and won for his own, a young English girl of beauty and high rank. Lucy Howard was

With Lucy it had all been different. She was fifteen when her father first informed her of the engagement he had made; and he accompanied this account with so many kindly things of Edward Mordaunt, and his own debt of gratitude to his father, that a responsive chord awoke in the maid. en's heart. On her sixteenth birthday, he renewed the subject, and again found his child casily led

mise that had been the source of Walter Ellerslie's heaviest sorrow. His daughter did not know this was so; he carefully concealed from her his anxi. ous forbodings; and although she sometimes wondered they never saw Mr. Mordaunt, she left it in her father's hands without inquiry, and with a quiet and hopeful looking forward to the future.— The child of so much love, of so much luxury, she could not easily think of disappointment. She was eighteen at the period when our story opens, as carefully reared, as fully and thoroughly educated as large means and leisure will admit. She had lived in much seclusion, as Mr. Ellerslie deemed such a course in accordance with his promise; yet he sometimes feared a natural timidity of disposition and much sensitiveness of spirit, had been fostered in Lucy's character in consequence. She was a child of God, but she had been in a remarkable degree exempt from temptation; her life had been like a gentle stream, winding its smooth and silvery way beneath pleasant trees, and by the side of flowery banks, and among broad and fertile fields, which stirred not even the surface of its quiet waters, but rather invited to repose. But a change was coming, when the tumultuous waves of human passion would overleap these bounds, and when a something stronger than human passion must say to the raging waters, "Peace, be still!”

The evening of the day after her father's funeral, Lucy sat alone-alone, indeed! She began to feel it so. She had not seen Mr. Mordaunt since her marriage; in the midst of her sore bereavement, she was painfully sensible of this avoidance. She knew not what to trust to-the future was dark, and hope grew dim in her heart, but did not go fully out. She received a message from him, requesting permission to see her; she gave it willingly-yet it was not without dread she saw him enter, and his cold salutation did little to reassure her.

He said "he was sorry to trespass on her time, but was hurried with home engagements, and would gladly come to a full understanding with her in regard to their most unhappy position." He paused, apparently for an answer; Lucy made none, and he went on-"I can well imagine your situation to be equally distressing with my own, and I yield to you the privilege of deciding as to our future course when you shall fully know my

As the sun mingling with the clouds of April, so did a deep and peaceful feeling steal into Lucy's troubled heart-she was comforted; and because her exhaustion had been great, and many sleepless nights her portion, she folded her hands as a young child would do, over her bosom, and slept. Perhaps an hour after, there was a gentle tap on the door; there was no answer-it opened, and Mor. He gazed long and daunt stood beside her. earnestly. He marked the swollen eyelids, the traces of past suffering about the delicate mouth, and again he sighed heavily. She breathed softly and her sleep was deep and quiet. sleep," he thought, "when she has so much cause for suffering-when, indeed she has suffered as much, perhaps, as her nature will admit of? Has she so little sensibility? Perhaps it is better soshe may be happy, when a woman of stronger feeling would be wretched." These were his musings as he stood looking upon his young wife. If his good angel had told him then it was God who had comforted his suffering child, he would not have believed. God was infinitely great, and high, and lifted up above every human want and sorrow, and how could he care for creatures insignificant as we are? True; but He has found a way in which to reach us with his human sympathy. Oh,

boon most precious, most blessed, that lifts the heavy heart to Him who bore its bitter portion with us-our friend and brother! He did not deem us

insignificant when our natures were immortal, and gifted by Himself with such amazing powers to suffer and enjoy.

Mordaunt had sought Lucy to acquaint her with the hour of their departure, and with some faint hope that she might yet decline going. He sent a message in the evening that he wished to leave early the next morning, so as to be able to reach city before night.

Lucy began the work of preparation in earnest; when over, she sent for the servants of her father's houshold, and with many kindly words, and more substantial tokens of her favor, she took her leave of them. When the morning came, and her baggage had been removed, she walked to the window, herself fully prepared to go. Mr. Mordaunt stood by the carriage,giving some directions; he chanced to look up, and sceing her, touched his hat-but Lucy thought his face was colder and sterner in its expression than when they parted the day be. "What if it fore. It was a painful moment. should be always so!" was her involuntary thought. Oh, that I could leave it all with my Heavenly Father, and think only of present duty!" She tried to do so.

ness, and such attention as their mutual relations demanded; resolved to make the best of a bitter evil, and bear as patiently as he might the long trial which had come upon him. Unless under the influence of very strong emotion, which might blind his sense of right for a season, Mordaunt was incapable of a deliberate act of injustice towards Lucy. Neither was he insensible to the claim she had on his protection.

Mrs. Bolton was silent. But it seemed a strange sort of marriage to her," with little of the young heart about it," as she afterwards said.

sat down to breakfast. He divided his thoughts between his coffee and papers, and their meal passed in silence. Lucy waited until his reading was over; then she begged he would excuse her troubling him, but she had one or two requests to make.

"Was she at liberty to bring the old gardener for many years in her father's employ, to take charge of his ?"

Certainly; he would be glad to have it so." "Had he any objection to having her father's furniture, much of which had been purchased expressly for herself, removed to his own house?" "None, if it was her wish."

"Would he give up to her private and absolute use, the left wing of the house!"

Shortly after their tea was over, Doctor and Mrs. Ellicott came in. When the first cordial greeting was over, the doctor sat down by Lucy. " My dear Mrs. Mordaunt, you must look upon me as an old friend. I am, indeed, your relative, and very deeply have I mourned your recent loss."Lucy mentioned Dr. Ellicott, a cousin of her Then he spake of her father, and Lucy was soothfather's whom she had not seen for many years.-ed and comforted, for he was well skilled in miMordaunt knew him well, and esteemed him high- {nistering to the afflicted. He told her many ly-indeed, he was, of all his friends, the one who things of his early history, and dwelt on all his had taken the most interest in his welfare. "As goodness and his love, until her heart was full to for Mrs. Ellicott," he said, "it was not easy for overflowing. And although Mordaunt's "dignity him to express his admiration of her character.- of manners" lingered still in her ears, the warm She is a most noble woman, with a gentle dignity tears gushed freely from her eyes, without her havand self-possession of manner that secure the re-ing power to restrain them. The old gentleman gard of those first attracted by the sweetness of her was a close obscrver, and he saw with sadness disposition. I like such a manner in a woman- that Mordaunt had no sympathy with her. "He It cost Lucy a great deal to make known her indeed, I think it essential." is unhappy, too," he said to his wife, as they walk-wishes, but she feared to act without a full understanding, lest he might be displeased. He inquired if she meant to supply the wants of the household? She would, with Mrs. Bolton's assistance. He placed in her possession ample means, which she was to draw quarterly; and for the repairs of the house, he gave her an order on his banker, which she was left to fill at her own discretion.

"You do," thought Lucy; "then I am far from ed home; "and so changed! His was all animapossessing anything half so imposing." ted and glad spirit, full of life and its enjoyments; now he is stern and grave, and little fitted to mate against his will, the gentle and sensitive girl they have made his wife. Worse than folly-it was

"There are great differences of opinion on that point, you will allow, Mr: Mordaunt," said Lucy, half smiling at her own annoyance. "Great," he answered, somewhat abruptly; "I wickedness to do it." had allusion to my own."

He was, indeed, changed. It was not well for the high and independent spirit of Edward Mordaunt to be coerced into this marriage. He felt all the moral force work that had been employed, as iron, that enters the soul, and his mind was darkened with many a bitter prejudice against the innocent cause of his suffering.

Lucy made no reply, and they rode on in silence. The shades of night were gathering over the beautiful city they were approaching, as they entered its environs, and drove rapidly to Mr. Mordaunt's house. Lucy shrank a little, as they passed through its stately entrance; she longed for her fathers's arm of support and kind tones of encour- Lucy retired to her own room immediately after agement. The old housekeeper, who had reigned the Ellicotts left. She was worn out with the undisturbed mistress for years, looked at her, she excitements of the day, and her sleep was deep and fancied, with anxiety and distrust; and although undisturbed. She rose early, as was her wont, reshe welcomed her, it was without any evidence of freshed and calmner than the day before. She satisfaction on her somewhat rugged features.- spent an hour in her quiet chamber, communing Lucy was oppressed, and could scarcely refrain with her own heart, secking guidance, direction from tears. Tea was speedily prepared. While and protection from Him who alone is able to give they were partaking of it, Mrs. Bolton, the house-it. Her great effort was to bring down her mind keeper, had leisure to observe her new lady; she had lingered in the room on various pretences, secretly surprised at the silence and coldness of the parties. But now her woman's heart began to beat in favor of Lucy, and she forgot she had come. to be her mistress without sending her word. Mrs. Bolton did not like being surprised. She saw Lucy eat but little, and that with effort; she took up a plate and handed it to her.

"Here, my dear young lady, are cakes of my own baking. Do taste one of them. I should have had things in different trim if you had only let me know you were coming." Lucy declined them. "Just taste one of them," she urged; "they are good and wholesome. I cannot bear to see you look so heart-sad, the first night you come to your own home. Do you know, Mrs. Mordaunt, you were born here, in this very house? I held you in my arms, a little, soft baby; and Master Edward raised upon his toes to peep over my arm to see you, and he laid his hand on your face, and asked me if that would hurt you. I remember it all as if it were but yesterday."

A deep flush passed over Lucy's face, but she said kindly, "You will tell me all this again, Mrs. Bolton, when I shall be glad to hear it. To-night we are weary with our long journey, and are not good listeners."

to present duties. "If I can do that," she thought;
"if I can be faithful in the present, leaving all the
rest in my Heavenly Father's hands, I shall find
blessedness, if I lose happiness." She passed from
the hidden into the outward life, with a gentle,
loving heart, and a strong, earnest desire to do right
before God.

Was it not well, my reader, that she should hold
commune thus with her own spirit and Him who
gave it?

Before Mr. Mordaunt was ready for breakfast, his wife had examined every nook and cranny of the garden; her heart rejoiced under the deep shade of the old trees, and the tiniest flower was more precious in her sight than silver or gold. She saw how much of care had been expended on this beau. tiful spot, how much was yet needed, and she longed to have it look as it had done in his mother's time. She went over the house also, saw what was to be done, and resolved to do it so quietly that her husband should scarcely know it was in progress. And in this work she was no novice, as she had always been associated with her father in carrying out his plans of improvement, and his judgment and taste did much in forming her own. She was fully competent to the task before her.Mr. Mordaunt was reading the morning papers, as she entered, and after a quiet good morning, they

To this there was assent, and also to her request that they might occupy the right wing until the rest was in order to receive them.

There was a pause, which he broke. "I have been thinking you will feel more independent if your own business affairs are settled by some one other than myself. I have thought of Dr. Ellicott and if you wish it, will speak to him. You may confide in him entirely."

"I am satisfied with present arrangements," said Lucy, with emotion, "but will do as you think best."

"I should not like to be misunderstood on this point," said Mordaunt, with gentleness. "I have the disposition to fulfil the duties your father assigned me, but it will not be for your comfort to have it so. You will act with more freedom to be entirely independent of myself. Shall I speak to Dr. Ellicott !"

Lucy gave her asscnt. He took up his hat, mentioned their usual hour for dinner, and in the doorway lingered a moment to say-"I will tell Dr. Ellicott to call this morning, and I have no doubt you can obtain from him such information as you require in regard to workmen of every description. He understands such matters much better than I do. Good morning, madam."

Lucy sat still long after he had left her, and many tears stole down her cheek unheeded. It seemned so wide a separation-their interests were to be different, their communications brief—he had willed it so; and the lonely orphan sorrowed with a bitter grief over the recent bereavement that had parted from her the fast and faithful friend of her childhood and youth. Yet he was not far away, for his counsel and early teaching had much to do with her concluding thoughts-to wait patiently, to bear cheerfully, to contribute to Mordaunt's comfort where she was permitted to do so, to be faithful in her duty, leaving all to God. Lucy was too young and tender a plant of Christian growth to have borne such fruit, if the careful nurture and early training of her father had not prepared the soil; but now the Master's hand was needed, that what was fair and beautiful might become perfect and fit for himself.