Then with fresh hope she journeyed on,
For many miles away;
And she reached the bottom of the hill,
Before the close of day.
She clambered up the steep ascent.
Though faint and weary, too;
But firmly did our Marian keep
Her purpose still in view.
"I'm glad, at least, the arbor's past,"
Said the little tired soul;
'I'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,
Half 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."
