My Lord The King;

cares a jot about me ; and why should she 1 " he added , after taking one or two strides up and clown the deck . " Why should she ? I ' ve only known her for about a day—hardly that yet ! I ' m afraid I shall make an ass of myself !" As sweet Maid Marian lay down that

night , she thought over the events of the day . It was all like a golden dream , and she shuddered to think that perhaps tomorrow she must wake to find that it was nothing but a dream . As she turned and tossed for the last time ere falling to sleep ,

she murmured to herself , " He loves me ! he loves me 1 " ( To be Continued . )

Only A Rose.

ONLY A ROSE .

BY C . C . HASKINS , 32 From the " Masonic Advocate . " [ Read at the Easter Celebration of lit . Moriah Chapter , S . P . R . + April 1 , 1877 . ] A weary jfilgrim—so the story goes-Had trod through burning sands long

, weary days , And suffered thirst and hunger on his way . His scanty scrip had failed in time of need , And sorrow pressed upon his weakened frame , His straggling Jocks of silv ' ry gray streamed

out Like silken webs upon the ev ' niug breeze ; His tattered robes were travel-stained anel old , His cheek was pale and thin , his shoulders

bowed , And wearily upon his staff he leaned , Yet FAITH and HOPE within his breast remained , Faith in that Power which ruleth from on high , Hope in a blessed immortality

; But that blessed handmaid , greatest of the three—Where could he hope to find sweet CHARITY ? Around , or far or near , no friend was there

With loving hand outstretched in her blest name . No kindly wocd had cheered bis lonel y way ,

For in that land no Cross uprears its head No roses blossom on glad Easter morn , The faith he held— . whichever way he turned—In lieu of bread brought only taunts and scorn ,

And scoffs were his in place , of gentle words . At night the stars shone bri ght upon the sands , Where lay the pilgrim till the rising dawn And heaven ' s broad arch , his canojiy of

blue , Gave all it had for charity—in tears . Each morn the sun rose hot and fiercel y shone To parch the famished wand ' rer on his way ,

_ As on his bended knees he faintl y breathed A moan of sujiplication to the Living Name : "Give me but strength so my vow I fulfil ,

Lead me , support me ! Hear , Lord this my cry ! Save me , oh Father 1 if this be thy will , Help 1 that on holier soil I may die !" A homely hut beside the path stood near , Which in the noon-tide lare seemed fresh

g and cool , And half invited , tempted from his way , The trav'ler longed within its bowers to rest . Yet feared the boon so coveted to ask , For past experience had wrought distrust

, And stones for bread too oft he had received . But hunger pressed—and hunger knows no law—While through his fevered sense he seemed to hear

The murmuring laughter of a brooklet near . He neared the gate that showed this path of hope ; He trembling raised the lattice latch with fear ,

Then slowly trod the vine-bowered pathway close , And lightly tapped the shaded cottage door A stern , rude , heartless greeting met his ear As turned the door , and comfort showed within .