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. She reminded him of all athletic sports he had taken part in, and of all the prizes he had won; she asked him what was the use of being six-foot-two and an impossible number of inches round the chest if he could not carry a baby. Larrie gave her an unexpected glance and moved the baby to his other arm; he was heated and unhappy, there seemed absolutely no end to the red, red road they were traversing, and Dot, as well as refusing to help to carry the burden, laughed aggravatingly at him when he said it was heavy. "He is exactly twenty-one pounds," she said, "I weighed him on the kitchen scales yesterday. I should think a man of your size ought to be able to carry twenty-one pounds without grumbling so." "But he's on springs, Dot," he said; "just look at him, he's never still for a minute; you carry him to the beginning of Lee's orchard, and then I'll take him again." Dot shook her head. "I'm very sorry, Larrie," she said, "but I really can't. You know I didn't want to bring the child, and when you insisted, I said to myself, you should carry him every inch of the way, just for your obstinacy." "But you're his mother," objected Larrie. He was getting seriously angry, his arms ached unutterably, his clothes were sticking to his back, and twice the baby had poked a little fat thumb in his eye and made it water. "But you're its father," Dot said sweetly. "It's easier for a woman to carry a child than a man"--poor Larrie was mopping his hot brow with his disengaged hand--"everyone says so; don't be a little sneak, Dot; my arm's getting awfully cramped; here, for pity's sake take him." Dot shook her head again. "Would you have me break my vow, St. Lawrence?" she said. She looked provokingly cool and unruffled as she walked along by his side; her gown was white, with transparent puffy sleeves, her hat was white and very large, she had little white canvas shoes, long white Suede gloves, and she carried a white parasol. "I'm hanged," said Larrie, and he stopped short in the middle of the road; "look here, my good woman, are you going to take your baby, or are you not?"