The balloon is rapidly drifting northwards. As the shades of evening begin to creep on apace it moves along Scotland’s western coasts. The aeronaut in charge of it guides it above the graves of Evie and Gloria Ravensdale, and Lady Flora Desmond. As the sun goes down across the western sea, it bathes, with a farewell flood of glory, the last resting-place on this earth of the great dead. The balloon descends, guided by a skilful hand. It soon reaches the ground, and in a short time the stranger stands by these graves. Three simple marble hearts lie above them, on which are engraved in golden letters the names of those who sleep below. And at the head of the graves a marble cross is standing with a few simple words thereon. The stranger goes over to the cross, and reads:— Sacred to the Memory of GLORIA DE LARA, DUCHESS OF RAVENSDALE, The mighty Champion of Women’s Freedom and the Saviour of her People. As also to that of Evelyn, the good Duke of Ravensdale, and the beloved and revered Lady Flora Desmond. Their names are engraved in the hearts of millions now and for all time. Amen. Surely Gloria had triumphed? What greater reward did she hope for than the welfare and love of the people? * * * * * MAREMNA’S DREAM. A soft wind sweeps across Maremna’s form, She starts, and springs from off her heath’ry couch. It was a dream, and yet not all a dream; For scenes which in her wand’rings she’s beheld Have throng’d that vision. She has seen again That which has cross’d her in the paths of men, That which has taught her life’s reality. Yet deep within, Maremna’s soul is stirr’d By that bright vision of a fight well won, A gleam of hope that yet these things shall be, That freedom shall not ever droop and pine, But strike a blow for glorious liberty. A waking vision to Maremna’s soul, Yet none the less inspiring, for the gleam Which first awoke within her mightier half Has glow’d and burnt into a fervent flame, which none but God can ever extinguish. A blood-red sunset! Bathed in its glow Maremna stands alone, Alone where oft in childhood she has play’d. The vision is before her bright and clear— Lo! it awakes her from a living trance, Bids her arise and buckle on her mail. Far off she hears the busy din of war, And knows that duty calls her to the fray. In that brief hour Maremna’s vow is made. Low sinks the sun, and gloom o’erspreads the earth, As down the rugged mountain side she wends Her way. Maremna’s high resolve is ta’en—