comes of a
stay-at-home."

She knew the proverb. Her other sons had not been stay-at-homes. What
had come to them!

Of Sholto, the eldest, the traveller, the dare-devil, the grave is
unknown; but the story of how he met his death, in far Arizona, came
years after to England and to Castle Dare. He sold his life dearly, as
became one of his race and name. When his cowardly attendants found a
band of twenty Apaches riding down on them, they unhitched the mules and
galloped off, leaving him to confront the savages by himself. One of
these, more courageous than his fellows, advanced and drew his arrow to
the barb; the next second he uttered a yell, and rolled from his saddle
to the ground, shot through the heart. Macleod seized this instant, when
the savages were terror-stricken by the precision of the white man's
weapons, to retreat a few yards and get behind a mesquit-tree. Here he
was pretty well sheltered from the arrows that they sent in clouds about
him, while he succeeded in killing other two of his enemies who had
ventured to approach. At last they rode off: and it seemed as though he
would be permitted to rejoin his dastardly comrades. But the Indians had
only gone to windward to set the tall grass on fire; and presently he
had to scramble, burned and blinded, up the tree, where he was an easy
mark for their arrows. Fortunately, when he fell he was dead. This was
the story told by some friendly Indians to a party of white men, and
subsequently brought home to Castle Dare.

The next four of the sons of Dare were soldiers, as most of the Macleods
of that family had been. And if you ask about the graves of Roderick and
Ronald, what is one to say? They are known, and yet unknown. The two
lads were in one of the Highland regiments that served in the Crimea.
They both lie buried on the bleak plains outside Sevastopol. And if the
memorial stones put up to them and their brother officers are falling
into ruin and decay--if the very graves have been rifled--how is England
to help that? England is the poorest country in the world. There was a
talk some two or three years ago of putting up a monument on Cathcart
Hill to the Englishmen who died in the Crimea; and that at least would
have been some token of remembrance, even if we could not collect the
scattered remains of our slain sons, as the French have done, but then
that monument would have cost L5000. How could England afford L5000?
When a big American city takes fire