Mary laughed a merry little laugh; “No such thing--I am not tired a bit--at least not now you are here; beside, don’t you work hard down in that close counting-room, your poor head bothered with figures all day? Do you suppose a wife is to fold her hands idly, that her husband may get gray hairs? No--you and I will grow old together, but that is a long way off yet, you know,” and Mary shook her brown hair about her face. “Come--now for tea. I have such nice cakes for you; the children have been so good and affectionate; to be sure they tear their aprons occasionally, and perhaps break a cup or plate, but what is that, if we are only kind and happy? Oh, it is blessed to be happy!” And Mary would have thrown her arms around her husband’s neck, but unfortunately she was too short. The smoking tea and savory cakes were set upon the table--Followed the children, bouncing and rosy--fairly brightening up the room like a gay bouquet. With one on either knee, Henry Hereford listened, well pleased, to tales of soaring kites, and sympathized with disastrous shipwrecks of mimic boats, nor thought his dignity compromised in discussing the question, whether black, blue, or striped marbles were prettiest, or whether a doll whose eyes were not made to open and shut, could, by any stretch of imagination, be supposed by its youthful mamma to go to sleep. How priceless is the balm of sympathy to childhood! The certainty that no joy is too minute, no grief too trivial to find an echo in the parental heart. Blessed they--who, like little children, are neither too wise, nor too old to lean thus on the Almighty Father! “Where’s my umbrella, Susan?” said Mr. Wade, “it is raining, and I am in a hurry to go to my business.” “It is Sunday, Mr. Wade; did you forget it was Sunday?” “Sunday!” ejaculated Mr. Wade, in well-feigned surprise, “we didn’t have salt fish, I believe, for dinner yesterday.” “No,” replied his wife, penitently, “but I believe it is the first time it has been omitted since our marriage.” “It _was_ an omission,” said Mr. Wade, solemnly, as he laid aside his hat and coat. “Sunday, is it, Mrs. Wade, I wish I hadn’t got up so early--I suppose you are going to take the children off to church, are you not? I’d like to be quiet, and go to sleep till dinner time.” “Perhaps you would step over to Mary’s some part of the day,” suggested his wife. “She came here yesterday to leave some nice jelly that she had been making for me, and said you had not been there for nearly two months.”