all willing hands, and the women
of Great Britain can do no unimportant part of it. Only let them be
true to themselves, and to the higher instincts which God has planted
within them. Only let them be faithful to duty, and prompt to perform
any good task that lies before them, whether it be small or great, and
they will be worthy to take their places by the side of the Farne Isles
Heroine; and of them also the Judge will say, "They have done what they
could."

CHAPTER II.

ANCIENT NORTHUMBRIA.

"Honour be with the dead! The people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,
And 'midst the forms in pale, proud slumber carved
Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt--where jewelled crowns
On the flushed brows of conquerors have been set--
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts!
Memories of power and pride, which long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away. Return, my soul!
The Cross recalls thee!"--Mrs. Hemans.

Every part of our little island home has its history. The land is
small, but the changes among the inhabitants, and the achievements of
its heroes, have redeemed it from triviality, and made it among nations
great and important. The deeds Englishmen have done, the afflictions
they have suffered, the victories they have won, and the results that
they have brought about, conspire to make every county famous for
something. In one, the ashes of martyrs have consecrated the ground.
In another, the introduction of some special art or industry has been
its elevation. Another was the birthplace of some great man, whom the
world delighted to honour. Yet another was the scene of some great
battle, where the bones of the vanquished whitened in the sun. And yet
another is historic, because upon its soil the lovers of freedom have
stood, firm as English oaks, and contended, not for their own rights
only, but also for those of their sons and daughters. But few parts of
the land have such thrilling stories to tell as that of Northumbria.
Border ballads innumerable have been written, and there are old stones,
dark rocks, and picturesque glens, that are ever singing their songs of
the olden and far-away days, and singing them so that no pen can
reproduce them. If they could but speak a language that we could