Foundations of Macroeconomics, 7e (Bade/Parkin)

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Chapter 8 Potential GDP and the Natural Unemployment Rate

8.1 Potential GDP

1) The Classical macroeconomic model proposes that

A) government intervention is required to help the economy reach its potential.
B) real GDP equals potential GDP as long as inflation equals zero.
C) changes in the quantity of money are critical in driving economic growth.
D) markets work efficiently to produce the best macroeconomic outcomes.
E) socialism produces the most efficient economic outcomes for a society.
Answer: D
Topic: Macroeconomic models
Skill: Level 4: Applying models
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Old
AACSB: Reflective thinking

2) The Keynesian macroeconomic model states that

A) the economy is inherently unstable and government intervention is required to maintain continued
economic growth.
B) markets work efficiently to produce the best macroeconomic outcomes.
C) fluctuations in the quantity of money are responsible for most economic recessions.
D) changes in technology generate business cycles.
E) the economy is fairly stable.
Answer: A
Topic: Macroeconomic models
Skill: Level 3: Using models
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Old
AACSB: Reflective thinking

1
Copyright © 2015 Pearson Education, Inc.
3) According the Keynesian macroeconomic model, which of the following was responsible for starting
the Great Depression?
A) too little private spending
B) too little government spending
C) high taxes
D) decreases in the quantity of money
E) decreases in technology
Answer: A
Topic: Macroeconomic models
Skill: Level 3: Using models
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Old
AACSB: Reflective thinking

2
Copyright © 2015 Pearson Education, Inc.
4) Which of the following ideas reflect the Monetarist macroeconomic model?
i) The Monetarist model supports the Classical model, in general.
ii) Decreases in the growth rate of the quantity of money trigger recessions.
iii) Government intervention is an appropriate tool to steady the economy.
A) i and ii
B) i only
C) i, ii and iii
D) ii and iii
E) i and iii
Answer: A
Topic: Macroeconomic models
Skill: Level 3: Using models
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Old
AACSB: Reflective thinking

5) The Monetarist model expands the Keynesian model by proposing that

A) decreases in the quantity of money lead to higher interest rates.
B) the government should lower taxes promote economic growth.
C) decreases in tax rates generate higher consumption.
D) decreases in the growth rate of the quantity of money trigger expansions by controlling inflation.
E) markets should be left alone to determine the optimal outcome.
Answer: A
Topic: Macroeconomic models
Skill: Level 3: Using models
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Old
AACSB: Reflective thinking

6) The Lucas Wedge shows

A) the negative impact a slowdown in real GDP growth has on potential GDP.
B) the increased impact of government spending on real GDP.
C) the negative impact inflation has on consumer spending.
D) the positive impact lower taxes have on real GDP.
E) whether a country needs to slow its real GDP growth rate.
Answer: A
Topic: Eye on the U.S. economy
Skill: Level 2: Using definitions
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Old
AACSB: Written and oral communication

3
Copyright © 2015 Pearson Education, Inc.
7) The Lucas Wedge is estimated to
A) total over $406,000 per person as a result of the slowdown in the growth rate of real GDP.
B) have reached about $13,000 per person in the last year.
C) be about 2 percent of real GDP per year.
D) be negative due to the severe recession in 2008-2009.
E) be positive in some years and negative in others.
Answer: A
Topic: Eye on the U.S. economy
Skill: Level 2: Using definitions
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Revised
AACSB: Written and oral communication

8) Which of the following would have the biggest payoff?

A) restoring real GDP growth to its 1960s growth rate
B) eliminating the Okun Gap
C) increasing the Okun Gap
D) making the Okun Gap equal the Lucas Wedge
E) increasing the Lucas Wedge
Answer: A
Topic: Eye on the U.S. economy
Skill: Level 4: Applying models
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Old
AACSB: Reflective thinking

9) The level of real GDP the economy produces at full employment is called
A) sustainable GDP.
B) nominal GDP.
C) potential GDP.
D) maximum GDP.
E) Lucas GDP.
Answer: C
Topic: Potential GDP
Skill: Level 1: Definition
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Revised
AACSB: Reflective thinking

4
Copyright © 2015 Pearson Education, Inc.
10) The level of real GDP the economy produces at full employment is
A) nominal GDP.
B) potential GDP.
C) never reached in reality.
D) called the Lucas level.
E) real GDP.
Answer: B
Topic: Potential GDP
Skill: Level 1: Definition
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Revised
AACSB: Reflective thinking

11) Suppose that Australia has fully employed all of its resources. This situation means that Australia
A) is operating at its potential GDP.
B) is growing at a faster rate than the United States.
C) has a negative Okun Gap.
D) has a positive Lucas Wedge.
E) is experiencing zero unemployment.
Answer: A
Topic: Potential GDP
Skill: Level 3: Using models
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Old
AACSB: Reflective thinking

12) If the economy is fully employed, which of the following is true?

A) The price level equals 100.
B) Real and nominal GDP are equal.
C) Real and potential GDP are equal.
D) The unemployment rate is zero.
E) Real GDP cannot increase.
Answer: C
Topic: Potential GDP
Skill: Level 2: Using definitions
Section: Checkpoint 8.1
Status: Old
AACSB: Reflective thinking

5
Copyright © 2015 Pearson Education, Inc.
Another document from Scribd.com that is
random and unrelated content:
 “Curse him!” is all Mr. Trackem vouchsafes in reply, but he
works away harder than ever.
Hanging over the back of a chair close to his table is a great-
coat, and on the seat lies a pot hat, pair of gloves, and walking-
stick. On the ground below the chair stands a small black business
bag. Into this bag Mr. Trackem ever and anon commits a paper
from out the heap that he is destroying.
There is a long pause. Then Victoire speaks.
“What are you going to do? I suppose you won’t be safe here
now?” she inquires.
“Safe!” he laughs angrily, “rather not. I suppose they’ll have the
bloodhounds on me before an hour’s out. No, Victoire, I must cut
it.”
“And what’s to become of me?” she asks, somewhat aghast.
“You’ll leave me some money, Trackem, and let me know where
you are going to?”
“Money! I’ve deuced little left of that now; and as for telling you
where I’m going to, I’m not such a fool. Why, you’d blurt it out any
moment,” and Mr. Trackem laughs sneeringly.
“But what’s to become of me?” she again inquires.
“Damned if I know!” he replies impatiently. “I don’t suppose
you’ll have much trouble in making a living along with some one
else, same way as you’ve made it here. You don’t suppose I can
saddle myself with you now, and drag you about wherever I go?
What a fool you are, Victoire!”
“Then you are going to throw me up?” she asks in a low voice.
“Haven’t I told you I can’t drag you about all over the place?” he
answers savagely.
“But you’ll leave me a little money, won’t you?” she says, with a
half sob. “I haven’t got a farthing, Trackem.”
“Then you must go and make it, my girl,” he replies coarsely.
“You’ll have no difficulty in doing that, and I’ve no money to give
you. You know perfectly well that I’ve nigh ruined myself with
lending all the money that I did to that Lord Westray, and now
he’s dead I can’t get it back. Curse him! I wish I’d never seen him,
or had anything to do with that Mrs. de Lara and her daughter.
They’ve beat us fair and square, Victoire, even though the
daughter be dead. Fair and square.”
 “I hate them both,” she bursts out with unreasoning fury. “They
are the cause of my misery now. Oh, Trackem! don’t forsake me. I
might have had a comfortable, respectable home with Charles, but
I threw it up to be with you. What did I do it for but because I
loved you? I’m a bad one, no doubt; but at least I loved you, and
do love you still. Don’t forsake me! I’ll stop here and put the
trackers off the scent, and do all I know how to help you, only
promise me you’ll let me know where you are by-and-by, and let
me join you again.”
A brilliant thought strikes Mr. Trackem. He has not the slightest
intention of doing as she asks, but it will be just as well, he thinks,
to lead her to believe that he will. And meantime she may be
useful in assisting his escape.
“Well, Victoire,” he says in a more conciliatory voice, “you’re a
good girl and a faithful one. Look here, here’s five pounds, and I’ll
send you more soon. Stay here as long as you can, and keep the
bloodhounds at bay. If the staff get uneasy, you can hoodwink
them. When you change your address put it in the Times. And
now, my girl, give us a kiss. I must be off. Every moment makes it
more risky.”
He has finished burning his compromising papers, has taken up
his hat, stick, and gloves, thrown his coat over one arm, and
picked up the business bag. He is quite ready to go.
She throws her arms round his neck. Fallen, degraded, wicked
as is Victoire Hester, yet she loves this vile, scheming, and
contemptible wretch, for whose sake she has steeped her soul in
the inky dye of sin, and turned from the path of honour and of
truth.
“There now, there now, that’s enough, old girl,” he says hastily,
and as she unclasps her hands from about his neck, he steps
quickly towards the door and opens it.
“Remember, Victoire, you baulk the trackers,” he says
significantly, and then he passes out from her presence, and is
gone.
She hears the front door open and shut again, and springs to the
window. She can just catch sight of him as he passes along the
Crescent. It is her last glimpse, and in spite of his promise to the
contrary, she feels that it is. But Victoire Hester for the moment
forgets herself. In the presence of the danger which threatens the
man she loves, she becomes calm. All trace of his hasty departure
must be quickly obliterated. She feels that this is imperatively
necessary. Quickly she sets to work, tidies up his table, sets the
room neat, and with her own hands collects the burnt paper and
carries it off. Then she opens the windows to let out the smell
which the burning paper has emitted, heaps more coals on the
fire, and moves into Mr. Trackem’s bedroom to arrange his things.
In less than an hour all is ship-shape and tidy as usual. There is
not a sign of hasty departure.
A few hours later there comes a ring at the front door. Victoire
has given instructions that she will see any one that calls. She has
often before undertaken this duty in Mr. Trackem’s absence, and
the servant sees nothing strange in the order. He therefore admits
the new-comers, and shows them into Mr. Trackem’s business
room. These two new-comers are men. They are dressed in dark
clothes, and they both seat themselves to await his coming.
“Run him in pretty sharp, eh?” observes one of them with a
smile, as the door closes on the servant.
“Haven’t got him yet, Bush,” retorts the other quietly. Inspector
Truffle is not of so sanguine a temperament as is Inspector Bush.
“As good as though,” replies Inspector Bush confidently, but he
stops abruptly as he hears steps approaching. Again the door of
Mr. Trackem’s business room opens. Victoire enters. There is
blank disappointment on Inspector Bush’s face. Victoire sees it as
she fixes her dark eyes full upon him.
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she says quietly; “you wished to
see Mr. Trackem? I am sorry to say he is away, but I expect him
back the day after to-morrow. His head clerk is ill too, but I can do
anything for you in Mr. Trackem’s place. I always attend to his
affairs in his absence.”
She smiles good-naturedly on the blank, nonplussed detectives.
She seems to give her attention especially to Inspector Bush.
Inspector Truffle rises to the occasion.
“Thank you, madam,” he says briskly, “but I fear the business
we have come about can only be transacted with Mr. Trackem. The
fact is, madam, we came to settle an account that we owe him, and
which would require Mr. Trackem’s signature to be of any use as a
receipt. And the worst of it is, we are going away, and shall not be
able to call again.”
He fixes a piercing glance upon her as he speaks, but Victoire is
equal to the occasion. She does not believe a word of Inspector
Truffle’s statement, and divines perfectly well what his business is.
She assumes a disappointed air as she exclaims,
“It is a great pity. But what is to be done? I do not think I can
possibly get Mr. Trackem back before the day after to-morrow.
However, I will telegraph to him, and will send you his reply. Will
you favour me with your address?”
Here is a poser. Victoire sees it, and inwardly chuckles. But
again Inspector Truffle attempts to uphold the fair fame of
detective smartness.
“Certainly, madam,” he replies, as he takes out his card-case and
hands her a card therefrom, upon which she reads the address of a
well-known firm of solicitors.
She assumes a most deferential manner.
“I think Mr. Trackem will make every effort to be here by to-
morrow. I will telegraph at once, and unless you hear to the
contrary, will you kindly call on Mr. Trackem at the same hour to-
morrow, if you please, gentlemen?”
Mr. Truffle is triumphant.
“We will,” he answers. “Well, thank you, madam. Good-
afternoon to you.”
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she replies with admirably
feigned regret ringing in her voice.
Inspectors Truffle and Bush betake themselves to the
comfortable hansom that awaits them. As it rattles along, the
former breaks silence.
“We managed that capitally,” he says with a chuckle. “Quite took
her in. The chink of money soon made her open her ears. Bet you
it brings Mr. Trackem home pretty quick.”
“Yes,” answers Inspector Bush. “I didn’t like the look of the
woman when she first came in, but she took the bait readily
enough. Poor things, those sort of women. No match for the likes
of us, eh?”
Inspector Truffle has had more experience than Inspector Bush,
and doesn’t agree there. But he thinks, as he drives along, that
anyhow this one is quite taken in.
Is she, though? You’ll find out your mistake, inspector, when
you call to-morrow with Inspector Bush at the same hour!
 CHAPTER VII.

The lights are low and softly subdued in Evie Ravensdale’s private
study or sanctum in Montragee House, the blinds and curtains are
drawn, the fire casts its flickering shadows on the ceiling and walls
as ever and anon the little gas-jets from the coals shoot forth their
vivid blaze, relapsing immediately after into smoke and gloom.
The sounds of mimic warfare which they produce are the only
ones which break the stillness prevailing, unless it be the low
breathing of the dog Nero, which is stretched upon the hearthrug.
He would hardly, however, lie there so quietly and contentedly,
if he were the only occupant of the room, for a dog’s chief
characteristic is love of company, loneliness being his pet
aversion.
Nor is he alone, as we shall see if we glance at the big armchair
drawn up in front of the fire, and looking again, perceive that it is
occupied.
The figure which sits there, is in truth very still and silent. It is
laying back with its knees crossed and its arms resting on each
side of the chair. Its head is slightly bent forward, and its dreamy
eyes glitter in the firelight, which they are roving as if in search of
an object prized but lost.
What does Evie Ravensdale see in that flickering firelight which
appears suddenly to arrest his gaze? It must be some cherished
object indeed, judging by the happy smile which for a few brief
moments lights up the otherwise sad face, on which melancholy
has stamped its mournful features. That which he sees is but a
passing vision however, for the smile quickly dies away, and leaves
the dark eyes searching again amidst the glowing coals, for the
picture that has come and vanished. Above the fireplace, shrouded
on either side by heavy curtains of old-gold plush, hangs the oil
painting which represents his first meeting with Hector
D’Estrange. It is only when alone that Evie Ravensdale draws
those curtains aside, and then none can see the emotion which the
picture arouses in him. For the memories which it awakens, albeit
noble and tender, are painful, recalling, as they do, the image of
her whom in life he has most cherished and now lost.
He is sitting there alone, but his mind is busy and his brain hard
at work. The sudden revulsion of feeling throughout the country,
aroused by the discovery of the drowned body of Lord Westray
and the tragic fate of Gloria de Lara, coupled with the published
declarations of Léonie Stanley, and later on the startling dying
depositions of Eric Fortescue, have all combined to create this
reaction in favour of the D’Estrangeite party. The Devonsmere
Government, weak in composition and intellect, at once
succumbed, and Lord Pandulph Chertsey, the free lance of the
National party, stepped into the Duke of Devonsmere’s shoes. But
Lord Pandulph was too clever and practical to attempt to govern
the fiery steed of public opinion with mimic reins of power. He
appealed to that tribunal which alone has the right to nominate its
rulers, the people, and demanded of the country its mandate. And
now the country, without demur or hesitation, has spoken out in
no uncertain tone. The light of a pure and noble life has
penetrated the darkness of opposition and prejudice, and has
fulfilled the prophecy which in childhood Gloria de Lara predicted.
The cause of right and justice has triumphed, and the reign of
selfishness, greed, and monopoly has passed away.
By a glorious majority D’Estrangeism has won. The Progressists
are nowhere, and the Nationals have been returned mutilated in
numbers. The D’Estrangeites, recruited by sixty additional seats,
declare the country’s will, and Evie Ravensdale, at the command
of his sovereign, has formed a Ministry, known under the name of
the Second D’Estrangeite Cabinet.
These changes have been rapid. Little more than a month has
passed away since the death of Gloria de Lara resounded through
the world, and already the vision which her childhood’s genius
conjured up as she spoke to the waves of the blue Adriatic, and
predicted victory, is on the eve of realisation. For even as it had
been her first act of power to bring in a bill for the complete
emancipation of women, so is it Evie Ravensdale’s intention to do
likewise.
But the position is different. When Hector D’Estrange
submitted his bill to the Commons, he knew that for many reasons
it was doomed, the first, and foremost being that the country had
not spoken, or pronounced unmistakably for or against the
change. On this occasion there can be no misunderstanding
however, for the Parliament returned gives the D’Estrangeites a
majority over the other parties in the House combined, and in
plain words declares the will of the people. But there is just this
difference again. Whereas the first bill was introduced to the
Commons, the second, in virtue of Evie Ravensdale’s rank, must
make its début in the Lords. Will this latter assembly accept it? It
remains to be seen. Yet surely in the face of the country’s mandate,
the peers will submit to the people’s wishes!
No wonder then that the brain of the young Premier is busy and
hard at work. In three hours from now, he will be submitting the
bill to his peers, and appealing to them in the name of justice and
right, in the name of fairness and honesty, in the name of the great
dead, to breathe upon it the breath of life. Surely the victory which
the child Gloria foretold, which the young genius foresaw, is now
at length to be won. Ah! surely yes.
“My darling,” he whispers softly, as the vision, which for a few
brief moments has shone in the gleaming coals, passes away in the
changing light thereof, “my darling, would to God that you were
here, would to God that I had the counsel of your clear brain, the
courage of your strong heart to support me! Yet hear me, Gloria,
and help me to keep my vow. Have I not sworn to dedicate my life
to the great work which your noble genius conceived and sought to
accomplish? And with God’s help I will be the faithful servant of
your great cause. So help me God!”
He rises as he speaks, and fixes his gaze on the painting above
him. It almost seems to him as though the figure of Hector
D’Estrange portrayed therein, stands there in living life. He can
hardly realise, as he looks at the beautiful face, that the spirit
which made Gloria so noble in life, does not animate it now. In the
subdued light and the flickering gleam of the fire, the features look
living and real; to Evie Ravensdale they bring high resolves and
noble inspirations, which only the influence of that which is great
and lofty, can awaken.

Estcourt is late in the House, too late to hear the whole of the
Premier’s speech; he has been delayed by business of pressing
moment. About five o’clock in the afternoon, a telegram had been
put into his hands, the contents of which had dazed and struck
him well-nigh speechless. He could not summon courage to credit
its contents. Recovering however, from his surprise, his first
impulse had been to seek his chief and lay the telegram before
him. Second thoughts had decided him, however, on not doing so,
and he had elected instead to send off a long telegram himself.
This telegram bore reference entirely to the one which he had
received, and was addressed to a friend in South America. During
the remainder of the day Estcourt has been anxiously and
feverishly awaiting the reply. So important does he regard this
reply, that he continues to await it, and in the House of Lords,
crowded by every active member belonging to it, he alone is
absent. It is natural, therefore, that his absence should have
caused both surprise and comment, especially as he is a
prominent member of the Second D’Estrangeite Ministry.
He has come in now, however, and his colleagues eye him
curiously. They cannot help noticing the suppressed look of
excitement in his face, and the eager, restless expression in his
eyes. Estcourt’s ordinary manner is so quiet and calm that these
unusual symptoms are all the more noticeable and surprising. But
the duke is still speaking; attention is soon again riveted on what
he is saying, and Estcourt is enabled, at any rate, to hear the latter
part of a speech whose persuasive eloquence and oratorical power,
amaze the House, Evie Ravensdale never before having been
regarded but as a common-place speaker, and orator of mediocre
talent.
“On this solemn occasion,” he is saying as Estcourt comes in, “I
beseech of your lordships to cast aside the cloak of old prejudices
and selfish monopoly, and obey the unmistakable will of the
country, which has appointed a House of Commons pledged to
carry this great act of human justice and reparation. I appeal to
you to show on this occasion a true courage worthy of men, and
abolish for ever from the Statute Book those disabilities under
which women are deprived of rights to which they are entitled by
reason of their common humanity with man. The stale arguments
of past days can no longer be advanced in opposition to this bill.
The false and brutal pretexts which formerly were adopted to
reason away the human rights of women, can no longer be
resorted to. Woman has triumphantly established the fact that her
mental capacities are equal to man’s—ay, and her physical powers
of strength and endurance as well, where she has been given fair
chances and fair play. There remains but one argument against
the removal of her disabilities and the triumphant assertion of the
principles of this bill; that one argument is selfishness. Men are
unwilling, in many instances, to allow women whom they have
held in subjection so long, to assume a position of equality with
themselves. These men object to remove the halo with which they
have self-crowned themselves; they object, in fact, to share with
women the good things of this earth. There is but one definition of
this attitude of opposition, and that is selfishness, my lords, pure
and unadulterated selfishness. But the time has come when this
selfishness is too glaring and apparent to pass from sight, when it
must be faced, fought with, and conquered. On its defeat depends
—not the welfare of man only, but the welfare and advance of the
world. We have sought to rule against the laws of Nature too long,
we have sought, by artificial means, to keep the world going, and
we have failed. What has the rule of man accomplished? The vain
gratification of a few, the misery of millions and hundreds of
millions. War has been invented to glorify men, to uphold
dynasties loathed, in many instances, by the people; vice and
immorality rage for the gratification of the ruler man;
philanthropy exists to patch up the sores and abscesses brought
about in Society by his excesses; the starving, the criminal, and the
miserable, are supported by taxes wrung from the people. Religion
spreads abroad its thousands of arms, each one asserting its sole
right to be, but the fact remains: war is spreading, crime
increasing, immorality assuming giant proportions, misery,
disease, and wrongdoing growing mightier day by day, while the
forces that could and would stay these horrors, still wear the
badge of slavery.
“I appeal to your lordships to face these facts, and act upon
them generously and courageously. From our midst a great and
commanding figure has but lately passed away,—one who began in
childhood an heroic and courageous resistance to wrong, and who
maintained that resistance through her all too short career. Gloria
de Lara, in the person of Hector D’Estrange, triumphantly
established the fact of woman’s equality with man, and undeniably
asserted the right of her sex to share with him in the government
of the world.
“And I ask your lordships to consider in a generous manner the
motives which first prompted the great heart of Gloria de Lara to
do battle for her sex, and which ultimately strengthened its resolve
to maintain the contest to the last. Was it not a dawning
comprehension of the terrible wrong under which her mother had
become an outcast in this world, shunned and despised by Society
at large? Did not Gloria de Lara recognise that in woman’s
unnatural position lay the root of the evil? Then, as she grew up,
and personally made herself acquainted with the woes afflicting
Society, did she not struggle to remedy this position, recognising
therein the key to human suffering? I bear testimony to her life of
patient, unwearying research amidst the suffering and slaving
classes. This it was that gave her such a grasp of her subject, when
in the House of Commons she sought to unveil to the members
thereof the horrors that existed. The dream of her life was, to be
spared in order to carry great social measures of reform, but she
recognised the fact that to do this effectually, woman must first be
placed on the level of equality with man. For this she struggled, for
this she fought on against overwhelming odds. I need not dwell on
the false and brutal charge which was brought against her, which
forced her to disclose her sex, which condemned her to die, and
which—when rescued by her own Women Guards—made her an
outcast and a wanderer, and a felon in the eyes of the law. The
falsity of this detestable lie has been abundantly proved in the
discovery of the dead body of the man who ruined and blasted her
mother’s life, who brought about her own pathetic and
irredeemable death. In her name I appeal for justice, and I
confidently believe that I shall not appeal in vain. I desire that the
division shortly to be taken shall seal the fate of the measure on
behalf of victory or defeat. You have the voice of the country
ringing in your ears, but high above that voice should sound the
loud appeal, which a great and noble example sends forth, the
appeal of the glorious dead.”
He sits down amidst a storm of applause, unusual in this august
and dignified assembly. He hardly hears it; he takes no note of the
varied scene around him. Evie Ravensdale sees before him the face
of but one being, that being Gloria de Lara. Is not her spirit near
encouraging, upholding, and leading him on to victory?
But he is awakened from his dream at the call of duty. The
division is being taken at last, and all wait in breathless
expectation for the result.
“The Content’s have it!” By a majority of 107 the peers obey the
country’s mandate, and acknowledge the people’s will as law.
Gloria has triumphed. That which she predicted is realised, the
vow which she made is accomplished. Ah! in this moment of
victory, who would not wish her here, instead of in the cold arms
of death?
 Of death? Silence is being called for, and Lord Estcourt is
endeavouring to make himself heard. He is successful at last.
“I wish to explain to the House,” he begins, “why I was not in my
place when my noble friend began his speech. My excuse will be
acceptable to this House, I feel sure. The fact is, I received a
telegram containing startling intelligence, so startling that I
conceived it to be a hoax. I took steps to ascertain the truth, and
am satisfied of the authenticity of the first intelligence. I have to
announce to your lordships the glorious news that Gloria de Lara
is not dead. By God’s almighty goodness she is alive—alive to
witness the triumph of her cause. Truly indeed you may exclaim
with me in accepting this wonderful intelligence, it is God’s will—it
is the hand of God.”
 CHAPTER VIII.

“Gloria de Lara lives!” The words have rung far and wide o’er land
and distant sea. They have entered the homes of the great, the
cottages of the poor, they have brought joy to millions of weary
hearts, who know that while that great name breathes the breath
of life, reform cannot die.
Yes, Gloria lives, lives! But how? Have we not seen her in the
clutch of Death?
We left her therein. We left her being borne down by the
resistless, sucking whirlpool of the sinking smack as the massive
trading steamer, which had cut clean through the frail barque,
bore on its course. As she parted her hold of Léonie, Gloria had
clutched the sinking wreck with that strong and tenacious grip
which the drowning alone can command. The lighter and severed
portion of the wreck had been swept forward by an enormous
wave, which carried with it likewise the body of Léonie, supported
on the crest of the sea by the life-belt, which Gloria had tied
around her.
But the bright, flashing light which had danced in Gloria’s eyes
ere she was borne downwards, had searched from stem to stern
the helpless, storm-tossed craft, and the anxious gaze of the man
on the look out had been able to detect those two frail human
forms. As the shout of “Boat ahoy!” had rung out through the
shrieking storm, the steamer had crashed through her frail
antagonist in the manner already described. But the skipper of
The Maid of Glad Tidings, as such the steamer was named, was
brave and humane. In spite of the storm he had skilfully brought
his vessel to the rescue. The electric light had swept the sea in
search of the unlucky boat, and after a time a portion of her had
been sighted, a helpless and dismantled wreck. Yet to that wreck a
human form was clinging.
A brave crew had manned the lifeboat, and with the true pluck
of British seamen, had fought against terrible odds to rescue that
one lone, helpless creature. They succeeded; and amidst that black
night and howling storm, another deed of heroism had silently
written its tale upon the scrolls of British fame. And as Captain
Ruglen’s gaze had first fallen on the rescued victim of the storm,
he had started. He was a big, powerful man, with a tender, kindly
heart. When, therefore, he bent over the silent figure and raised it
in his arms, bearing it below to his own cabin, his men only saw in
this act another evidence of the skipper’s kindly disposition. Yet in
that brief glance, Gloria de Lara had been recognised; for what
devoted adherent of her cause who had ever looked upon her face
could forget it? Certes, not Captain Ruglen. A member of Ruglen
clan, he was also an out-and-out D’Estrangeite; nor was this the
first time that he had been in the company of Hector D’Estrange.
But he knew that the once successful and powerful idol of Society
was now a hunted and doomed felon, with a large reward out for
her apprehension. He knew that many of his crew were not
D’Estrangeites, and that it might go hard with him and her if she
were recognised. Thus had he borne her to his cabin, determined
there to protect and shield her, and carry her to the far-away free
shores of the Spanish main, whither The Maid of Glad Tidings
was bound.
Reaching it, Gloria’s first act had been to wire to Speranza de
Lara in North America, and to Estcourt in England. As yet she had
heard no tidings of the wonderful events which had led up to the
triumph of her cause.
But those tidings sped back to her along the electric wire. They
came in the shape of a loving message of welcome from the man
she loved. From Evie Ravensdale she learnt how victory had
crowned her efforts; from him came the tidings of great joy that
her vow had been accomplished.

Once more the vast crowd of London surges in the streets,—a

happy, joyous, good-humoured crowd nevertheless. Every house is
gay with bunting and flags, and triumphal arches are in every
street through which the procession will pass along.
What procession?
Why, is not this the day upon which Gloria de Lara is to reach
our shores, and is she not to be welcomed back and publicly
honoured in the great Hall of Liberty, where, when last she stood,
she was a condemned and hunted felon?
The yacht Eilean has gone to meet her. It has joined the
Colossus, in which Gloria has made her passage from South
America at the mouth of the Thames. The party on board the
Eilean consists solely of Speranza de Lara, Flora Desmond, and
her child, a fine girl of seven years, together with Evie Ravensdale,
Estcourt, Léonie, and Rita Vernon. All, with the exception of
Speranza, wear the white gold-braided uniform of the White
Guards’ Regiment of the Women Volunteers, an organisation
which a Royal Proclamation has called back to life.
The Colossus has yielded up its precious charge. As the cutter
bears Gloria de Lara away from the great war monster’s side
towards the white, graceful Eilean that awaits her, the cannon
belch forth their parting salute and welcome in one breath. There,
standing on the deck ready to grasp her hand in a deep and loving
tenderness, with heartfelt gratitude for her wonderful deliverance,
stand the two beings whom she loves most in the world, Speranza
de Lara and Evie Ravensdale. What human words could describe
that meeting, for they thought her dead, and behold she is there in
living life?
Tilbury Docks are reached; the roar of distant cannon announce
her arrival. There she stands on the yacht’s bridge with Evie
Ravensdale by her side. As the crowd sways to and fro to catch a
glimpse of her, the people see that she wears the White Guards’
Uniform. The regiment is there to meet and welcome her. As she
leaves the yacht, its band strikes up the beautiful march
“Triumphant,” the same which had welcomed her to the Hall of
Liberty, when, as Hector D’Estrange, she had performed the
opening ceremony. The milk-white steed which she had ridden on
that occasion now awaits her in its trappings of white-and-gold.
Never has horse been so groomed and petted as this one.
In sight of the crowd she bids her mother a courteous and
tender farewell, for Speranza has elected to drive straight to
Montragee House, there to await her child’s return. A brilliant
mounted throng await the former’s coming; many well-known
faces are there, amongst which Gloria catches sight of those of
Lady Manderton and Launcelot Trevor.
Now she has mounted her milk-white charger Saladin, and with
Evie Ravensdale and Nigel Estcourt on her right, and Flora
Desmond and Archie Douglasdale on her left, is riding slowly
forward. In close attendance behind are Rita Vernon and Léonie
Stanley. The latter’s eyes are busy in the crowd, and seem to
search the ranks forward as they ride along. The brilliant throng of
mounted friends close in, the cheering of the crowd is deafening; it
will be one long loud roar until the Hall of Liberty is reached.
The way is kept by the Women’s Volunteer Regiments, and the
order is perfect. As Gloria and Flora ride along, they catch
glimpses of old, tried, true, and trusty friends among the ranks—
friends who in time of trouble stood by them, and laboured
lovingly to make easier the rugged path which they were then
treading.
It is a soul-inspiring sight. Many of the people have brought
flowers with them, and as the procession approaches they cast
them loosely in the air, out of which they descend in a shower of
many colours to carpet the way, along which Gloria must pass,
with their bright and variegated bloom. The strains of the White
Guards’ band, the glitter of their white-and-gold uniforms, the
loud cheering of the enthusiastic crowds as the brilliant cavalcade
moves along, is a sight which the onlooker is not likely to forget. It
thrills the hearts of that vast woman world, assembled to do
honour to the one who has worked for and who has won their
emancipation.
One long triumphal march. One uninterrupted scene of
unchecked enthusiasm is the welcome accorded her from the
Docks to the Hall of Liberty. The sun is shining on the gilded
statues and million panes which crown that wondrous structure,
as she approaches the building which her genius conceived and
raised,—approaches it, no longer as the hunted felon upon whose
head the price of gold is set, but as a free woman, a victorious
general who has conquered the demon armies of Monopoly and
Selfishness, and thrown open to the people the free gates of
happiness and reform. Now through the giant portals she rides
once more. Great God! what a burst of welcome, and what a scene!
From floor to ceiling the monster building is crammed. Every
available space has been occupied; there is not a foot of standing
room.
She has uncovered, and they see her face as she rides round the
circular ride towards the huge platform,—the same face of
exquisite beauty which they remember and know so well. As she
dismounts, she is received by the chairman of the committee
appointed to carry out the day’s proceedings, and to present the
people’s address of welcome, to which thousands of representative
names from every county have been attached.
 On the platform are gathered every member of the Ministry and
every D’Estrangeite Member of Parliament. Truly a royal welcome
by staunch and faithful friends; for as Gloria dismounts and steps
upon the platform she is greeted with a loud long cheer by these
men of generous mould, who have fought so nobly on behalf of her
holy cause. All honour be to them for ever!
Sir Arthur Hazlerigg, Lord Mayor of London, presents and reads
the address of welcome, and as he concludes it, Gloria de Lara
stands forward to reply. An intense silence falls. All are eager to
hear again a voice which they had believed to be for ever stilled in
death.
“My friends,” she begins, and though the voice has all the clear,
ringing sweetness of yore, there is undoubtedly a tremor in it, “it
would require a special language, one of which we have yet no
knowledge, to convey to you the emotions which this scene of
magnificent welcome awakens within me. From the bottom of my
heart I thank you for it, as well as all those true and gallant friends
who have created this glorious day; for next to God it is the people
who have created it. In this welcome which you give to me, the
humble and all too unworthy representative of a magnificent
cause, the great principle of human freedom is at length
recognised, that freedom inherited at birth, and only wrung from
individuals by oppression and wrong. Human freedom means the
right to take part in the creation of laws for the better government
and perfection of man; it means that man and woman are born
equal, are created to work hand in hand for the greater happiness
of mankind. Hitherto this principle of mighty truth has not been
recognised, with the awful results shown forth in man’s ever-
increasing degradation. By the acknowledgment of this principle
you have laid the train which, when fired, will put an end to
immorality and social wrongs, which will make evil unpleasant to
perform, and which will degrade the performer to the position of a
leper, the shunned and outcast of Society, loathed and despised by
his fellow-men. By the acknowledgment of this principle, a day of
darkness has sunk to rise no more, and one of brightness, and
promise, and fair hope has arisen to cheer us along the glorious
path of reform. Much there is to be done, mountains of prejudice,
and selfishness, and greed yet to be faced and conquered; but the
army which the acknowledgment of human freedom has raised, is
an army which will fight victoriously to the end; for it is an army in
which men and women will do battle side by side and shoulder to
shoulder, undeterred by class jealousies or the odious assumption
of superiority by one sex over another. My friends, as I stand to-
day in this Hall of Liberty and look upon this magnificent scene,
memories rise up before me of a stirring and eventful past. I see
before me now, a picture which in childhood I loved to imagine, a
glorious reality which in the past haunted my waking dreams. On
many incidents of that past I would prefer not to dwell, arousing,
as they must, the bitterness of human nature. Rather is the
province of the conqueror, of the victorious to forgive and forget,
to look forward to the future, and strive for the possibilities which
that future may contain. We are starting along a new path in life, a
path open to all, not monopolised by the few, a path which, as
time goes on, shall show traces of victory on all sides. I ask the
great army of my countrymen to endeavour to win those victories
as speedily as possible, so that in the future, the day may dawn
when there shall be no misery, no wickedness, no crime. In that
army, women now find a place; let them triumphantly prove their
right to be there. They have yet an uphill road to climb, but I have
confidence that they will compass it, and now that the gates of
freedom are thrown open to them, take part in all the great deeds
of the world. Upon them the eyes of this world will be fixed; upon
them depends the ultimate freedom of the human race. I have no
fear as to the result; I do not for one moment dread the trial. I
believe, moreover, that the presence and natural companionship
of woman will upraise and influence man’s character for good,
banishing from his daily life those coarser habits which self-
indulgence and lack of moral influence have allowed to creep
therein, and that Society, in its remodelled state, will thus be
enabled to deal with the evils which infest it. My friends, I need
detain you no longer. On my arrival in this country I was informed
that my old constituency had re-elected me as its member. I
rejoice to hear that I have several women fellow-members in the
Legislature to whom men, generous and noble-hearted men, have
relinquished places. To tell you that the remainder of my life,
which God has so mercifully spared to me, will be employed in
working for the people, in devoting every energy I possess to their
advancement, is the sum of my declaration here to-day. Rest
assured that for them, no one will struggle harder than Gloria de
Lara.”
A simple speech, a quiet, honest declaration. Though she stands
there, the cynosure of all eyes, there is no vanity or conceit in
those few simple words. Gloria’s aim is unveiled. It is the
upraising and triumph of humanity. She lives but to work on its
behalf.
She is on the point of stepping back amidst a perfect hurricane
of cheers, when Evie Ravensdale comes to her side.
“One moment, Gloria; stay where you are,” he whispers. “I have
something to say.”
He raises his hand to ask for silence, and the people accord it to
him.
“My friends,” he exclaims, “for with Gloria de Lara may I not
call you my friends? I have a pleasing task to perform in that
which I am going to say. As Gloria de Lara has told you, the law of
this country has at length acknowledged the principle of human
freedom, and woman’s right to equal man is finally recognised.
When the country spoke out so unmistakably on behalf of human
freedom, my sovereign bade me assume the reins of power. I
accepted them, not unwillingly; for the only object I had in life was
to carry out the great reforms which the genius of Gloria de Lara
had conceived, and of which she had made me the confidant. At
that time I believed, with all others, that she was dead. But, my
friends, she is alive. And now I tell you that she only has a right to
assume the reins confided to me, she alone has the right to carry
those great reforms. The person who conceived them alone has
that right, and I, her deputy, relinquish it to her. I tell you that
Gloria de Lara must be your Prime Minister, while I will take my
part as a humble worker with the people. With the full approval of
my colleagues and every D’Estrangeite member, I intend forthwith
to tender my resignation, and to advise my sovereign to send for
Gloria de Lara.”
There can be no mistaking the genuine ring of approval in the
mighty cheer that bursts forth from the thousands of throats in
that densely packed building. Truly the child’s heartfelt prayer has
been answered in this splendid tribute paid to her unselfish
labours, from the days of childhood far into those of womanhood.
 CHAPTER IX.

Wealth and magnificence rear their forms in and around the

precincts of St. Stephen’s. They do not, however, monopolise the
entire space, for here and there the squalid streets of poverty
abide, with all their wealth and magnificence, of suffering, crime,
and sin. One of these streets is just across the river, and the clock
in the big tower of the Houses of Parliament can peep and peer
therein, even from its misty height.
Staring from a dust-begrimed window on the second floor of a
dirty-looking dwelling situated in the street named, stands a
woman, whose rough, untidy hair is tied back in a knot, and whose
coarse, seared features show signs of former enamelling, now
disused. Poor wretch! there is hunger and misery in her eyes, and
despair as well. Some would say insanity gleams there.
She is listening to the cannons’ roar as they belch forth their
welcome to Gloria de Lara. Their booming sound is maddening to
the hungry, lonely, despairing woman, who stands there with not a
friend in the world.
Yes, he has forsaken her, got away scot-free himself, but left her
to wait for and look for him in vain. Victoire Hester has parted
with her jewellery and tawdry finery for a mere song, the five-
pound note which Mr. Trackem gave her is expended, and she has
not a farthing left in the world. To-morrow she must find three
shillings for the rent of her miserable, unhealthy room, and she
has not got it, nor has a morsel of food touched her lips this day.
She is broken-hearted. Worse than that, she is jealous, angry,
bitter. It maddens her to think of Gloria at the pinnacle of success,
and she who sought to assist in her ruin, at the bottom of the abyss
of abject misery.
What is left to her in the world? Nothing. Her character is gone.
She cannot find work, and if she could, she would not undertake
it. She has no heart to do anything, for in her coarse, hard way, she
loved Trackem, loved him only to lose him.
“Whose fault but hers?” she mutters angrily as the cannon boom
once more. “Why should she be happy, while I die here like a dog?
Not that I want to live, I mean to die; but she sha’n’t live to be
happy, that she sha’n’t! I’ll send her first, and then I’ll go myself.
Ha, ha!”
Surely insanity rings in that voice. Poor Victoire! You do not
know how lovingly Gloria would forgive you, if she only knew the
state you were in, how eagerly she would seek to raise you from
that fallen state, and set you on the straight path once more. But
all this you do not know.
She goes over to a tumble-down-looking chest of drawers that
has seen better days, and pulls open one of the drawers. Out of
this she takes a six-chambered bull-dog revolver, examines it
carefully, and slips it into her pocket. It used to belong to Mr.
Trackem, and she had brought it away with her when she left the
house in Verdegrease Crescent, a few hours after the departure of
Inspectors Truffle and Bush. She has kept it by her,—it is about
the only thing she has not parted with,—vaguely feeling that it may
be useful, if Mr. Trackem does not answer her piteous appeals in
the agony columns of the Times; for Victoire Hester has
determined to put an end to herself now that he has forsaken her.
The rich and well clothed may condemn her, but who could, who
diving into the arid desert of that lonely, hopeless heart, beheld
the mortal wound inflicted by despair?
The revolver safe, she next unearths an old woollen shawl,
which she flings over her head and pins under her chin. Then she
is ready, and she gropes her way down the dark staircase into the
street.
She is hungry, weary, and weak, but she walks briskly along,
looking straight ahead of her. People are hurrying across
Westminster Bridge eager to get a good place in the line along
which Gloria de Lara will pass on her way from the Hall of Liberty
to Montragee House. Victoire Hester is intent on securing a good
place too.
And she is successful. She takes her stand in Whitehall, not a
stone’s throw from the Duke of Ravensdale’s mansion. She will
have a long time to wait, but she steels herself to endure it.
Denser and denser grows the throng, but Victoire Hester,
though pushed and hustled about, nevertheless maintains her
position in the front rank. She feels she must hold that at any cost;
it is necessary for her purpose. There is a tremor in the crowd, as if
an electric current had passed through it. Now the boom of
cannon resounds once more. These warning notes tell the people
that the ceremony is over in the Hall of Liberty, and that Gloria de
Lara is leaving it for Montragee House.
A hum runs along the serried walls of human forms; the electric
current is apparently again at work. From afar strains of martial
music come floating to the people’s ears, arousing them to the
pitch of expectancy and excitement. There is a dull continuous
roar too; it never seems to cease, as it rises and falls like the waves
of a turbulent sea, breaking upon the wild shores of a rock-bound
coast. Yet as it comes nearer, the roar assumes a human sound; it
is that of thousands and tens of thousands of voices cheering
lustily. Victoire Hester’s trembling hand gropes in her pocket for
the revolver. She knows now that Gloria de Lara is approaching,
and that the moment which will close her own life is at hand. Yes,
surely insanity is writ in those eyes as they stare hungrily forward.
How terribly they gleam!
No one notices her, however. Every eye is bent upon the
approaching procession. There comes the band of the White
Guards,—how soul-stirring its music!—and there, too, is the milk-
white charger Saladin, with arching neck and proud carriage; for
does he not bear a precious charge indeed, in the person of Gloria
de Lara?
The sun gleams down upon her gilded helmet, and lights with a
living blaze the gold braiding upon her uniform. How beautiful she
looks as she rides along with the glance of eager thousands upon
her! How she loves the people! How they return that love! Surely
none in that wildly enthusiastic crowd would seek to harm her?
Yes, one would though, and we know who. The madness in
Victoire Hester’s brain is increased by the scene before her. More
than ever she questions the right of this woman to be happy, to be
the idol of thousands, while she is doomed to be friendless and
miserable.
Will no one stay her hand? Will no one arrest and strike down
the engine of death which she is steadily raising and bringing to
bear full on Gloria’s breast? Ah! can no one in this moment of wild
excitement see the danger that threatens the idol of the people?
See! Victoire’s finger is on the trigger! God! can no one see and
stay it?
Yes, one can see it, though she cannot stay it—one whose glance
has faithfully swept the crowd ahead of Gloria all the way along.
Only a pair of dark grey faithful eyes, with a wondrous wealth of
lashes shading their intelligent depths, only a girl in years, yet
with the light of genius stamped on the beautiful forehead above
them. She sees and recognises Victoire Hester in spite of her
changed aspect and the mad look in her eyes. Léonie Stanley sees
the revolver raised and the assassin’s finger on the trigger. Deep
into her horse’s flanks she drives her spurs. He springs furiously
forward, brushes roughly against Saladin and his rider, and covers
like a shield the person of Gloria de Lara.
Only just in time though! The revolver’s note rings forth,
speeding from its lips the messenger of death; yet another note,
and it claims two victims for its own. One is a wild, pale, haggard
woman stretched out upon the street, from whose temple blood is
flowing, the other a young officer of the White Guards’ Regiment,
who has fallen forward on the grey neck of her horse, and whose
blood is staining his dappled well-groomed coat. Dear little
Léonie, she has not lived in vain; she has proved her love and
gratitude at last; she has shown how ill-fitting was the cloak of
Judas, in which the wicked had striven to clothe her. She has lived
to prove her gratitude, and is faithful unto death.
 CHAPTER X.

1999. It is a lovely scene on which that balloon looks

down,—a scene of peaceful villages and well-tilled fields, a scene of
busy towns and happy working people, a scene of peace and
prosperity, comfort and contentment, which only a righteous
Government could produce and maintain.
The balloon is passing over London, a London vastly changed
from the London of 1900. Somehow it wears a countrified aspect,
for every street has its double row of shady trees, and gardens and
parks abound at every turn. This London, unlike its predecessor, is
not smoke-begrimed, nor can it boast of dirty courts and filthy
alleys like the London of 1900. Every house, great and small, bears
the aspect of cleanliness and comfort, for poverty and misery are
things no longer known.
A stranger in the balloon looks down with interest upon this
scene. His gaze, wandering across the mighty city, is arrested by
two gleaming gilded statues crowning a monster edifice, upon
whose cap of glittering panes the sun is shining brightly.
“Is that the Hall of Liberty?” he inquires of his guide.
“Yes,” answers the person addressed, “the same as was raised a
century ago by the great Duchess of Ravensdale, of noble
memory.”
“Is she buried there?” asks the stranger dreamily.
“Buried there! Ah, no!” replies the man almost indignantly. “I
thought all the world knew where Gloria of Ravensdale sleeps.
There is a beautiful grave overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, on the
shores of Glenuig Bay. It is there where Gloria sleeps, by the side
of her husband Evelyn, the good Duke of Ravensdale. It was her
wish, and her wish with the nation was law. Every year the grave is
resorted to by thousands, who lay upon it their tributes of lovely
flowers.”
“Is any one else buried there?” again the stranger asks.
 “Yes, sir, a great woman, Lady Flora Desmond. She survived
Gloria of Ravensdale for many years, and carried on her noble
works of reform. She was Prime Minister for twenty years, and her
last request was to be buried at the feet of the Duke and Duchess
of Ravensdale.”
“The Ravensdales owned immense wealth, and parted with it
all, so history says,” murmurs the stranger.
“Ay, sir, they gave it all to the poor. At least, they spent it on the
poor, and by their noble example induced others to do likewise,”
answers the man. “There is no poverty in this country now, sir. As
we pass across it you will see evidence of peace and contentment,
and plenty everywhere. We owe it all to the glorious reforms of
Gloria of Ravensdale.”
“That is a very lovely garden not far from Westminster Bridge
which you lately pointed out to me,” continued the stranger.
“What a glorious wealth of flowers!”
“Ah! that sir is where Léonie Stanley saved Gloria de Lara from
assassination by a maniac. But she lost her life in doing so. She
was accorded a public funeral, and by the wish of the nation
buried where she fell. The garden was laid out afterwards. It is the
nation’s pride to keep it beautiful. Léonie’s heroic deed will for
ever live in the hearts of a grateful people.”
“And where is the great Lord Estcourt buried?”
“In the National Burial Ground, where only those whom the
nation loves to honour are laid.”
“Yonder splendid building is the Imperial Parliament, is it not?”
pursues the stranger.
“Yes, sir. That is where the representatives of our Federated
Empire watch over its welfare. To Gloria of Ravensdale we owe the
triumph of Imperial Federation. She lived long enough to see
England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales peacefully attending to
their private affairs in their Local Parliaments, while sending
delegates to represent them in the Imperial Assembly. Ah, sir! that
Imperial Assembly is a wonderful sight. Therein we see gathered
together representative men and women from all parts of our
glorious Empire, working hand in hand to spread its influence
amongst the nations of the world, with all of whom we are at
peace.”
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—
Faithful till Death to be, unto her vow.

THE END.

Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney Ld., London and Aylesbury.

 BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

REDEEMED IN BLOOD.

BY
LADY FLORENCE DIXIE,
Author of
“The Young Castaways,” “Across Patagonia,” “In the Land of Misfortune,” etc.

In Three Vols. Crown 8vo, 31s. 6d.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

“A novel of stirring adventure, but also one with a purpose.”—
Morning Post.
“In this novel, Lady Florence Dixie inculcates her well-known
theories about the education and position of women. The way is
paved for various thrilling adventures.”—Times.
“Lady Florence Dixie has the courage of her opinions; she writes
freely and frankly, with a natural grace of manner that makes her
works interesting and readable, and she has the art of writing a
good story while enforcing her theories. There is plenty of
excitement, adventure, and interest in the story, and, apart from
its too startling title, Lady Florence Dixie’s novel will commend
itself to the reading public.”—Life.
“Under whatever impression the book is first opened, it is likely
to be perused for its own sake to the end.”—Sunday Times.
“Carries us through at breathless speed.”—Truth.
“That Lady Florence Dixie can write well, is shown not only by
her natural sketch M , but by the character of Lady Ettrick, and
her charming sketches at the opening of the youthful lovers Rory
and Lorna, who certainly do not bend to the customs of
conventional society. Whatever else be said for or against the
novel it is indubitably exciting.”—Academy.
 “Lady Florence is a vivacious writer; many of her social sketches
are very happy, and among her faults she certainly does not
number that of dulness.”—Literary World.
“Lady Florence Dixie always writes brightly ... her dominant
qualities are to be found in ‘Redeemed in Blood.’”—World.
“On the subject of rational dress and the prevailing system of
bringing up young people, Lady Florence is neither silent nor soft
spoken; she has very pronounced opinions as to the way in which
girls should be brought up, and she gives free expression to them.
She writes naturally, sensibly, and skilfully.”—Scotsman.
“It is written with so much dash and go, and there is so much
delightfully fresh incident in it, that it is eminently readable.”—
Glasgow Herald.
“There is no sham romanticism in the book; its literary
workmanship is vigorous. Whatever else Lady Florence may be,
she is emphatically original.”—Scottish Leader.
“The opening chapter contains some capital descriptive
wanting, and the interest is most cleverly kept up to the end.”—
Newcastle Chronicle.

NEW WORK FOR THE YOUNG.

By the Author of “T Y C .”

ANIWEE;
OR, THE WARRIOR QUEEN.
A Tale of the Araucanian Indians.

B LADY FLORENCE DIXIE.

Large Crown 8vo, with Illustrations, 5s. [In preparation.

L : HENRY & C ., 6, B S , E.C.

Price 5s. Illustrated.