822 THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.

She clambered up the steep ascent,
Though faint and weary too;

But firmly did our Marian keep
Her purpose still in view.

“T’m glad, at least, the arbor’s past,”
Said the little tired soul ;
“T’m sure I should have sat me down,
And lost my little roll!”
On the high hill-top she stands at last,
And our weary Pilgrim sees
A porter’s lodge, of ample size,
Haif hid by sheltering trees.

She clapped her hands with joy, and cried,
“Oh, there’s the Wicket Gate,

And I must seek admittance there,
Before it is too late.”

Gently she knocks—'tis answered soon,
And at the open door

Stands a tall, stout man—poor Marian felt
As she ne’er had felt before.

With tearful eyes, and trembling hand,
Flushed cheek, and anxious brow,

She said, “I hope you’re Watchful, Sir,
I want Discretion now.”

“Oh yes, I’m watchful,” said the man,

“As a porter ought to be ;

I s’pose you’ve lost your way, young Miss,
You’ve lost your shoe, I see.

“ Missus,” he cried to his wife within,

“ Here’s a child here, at the door,

You'll never see such a one again,
If you live to be fourscore.

She wants discretion, so she says,
Indeed I think ’tis true ;

But I know some who want it more,
Who will not own they do.”

“ Go to the Hall,” his wife replies,
“ And take the child with you,
The ladies there are all so wise,
They’ll soon know what to do.”
The man complied, and led the child
Through many a flowery glade;
“Ts that the Palace Beautiful ?”
The little Pilgrim said,