Rest comes at last to the weary,
And freedom to the slave;
Her tired and worn-out body
Sleeps well in its pauper grave.
But His angel bore her soul up
To that Bright Land and Fair,
Where Sorrow enters never,
Nor any cloud of care.
They came to a lovely valley,
Agleam with asphodel,
And the soul of the woman speaking,
Said, "Here I fain would dwell!"
The angel answered gently:
"O Soul, most pure and dear,
O Soul, most tried and truest,
Thy dwelling is not here!
"Behold thy place appointed—
Long kept, long waiting—come!
Where bloom on the hills of Heaven
The roses of Martyrdom!"
THE CARRYING OF THE BABY.
By Ethel Turner.
Larrie had been carrying it for a long way, and said it was quite time Dot took her turn.
Dot was arguing the point.