in histories of our western border.

For a hundred years the stories of Betty and Isaac Zane have been
familiar, oft-repeated tales in my family--tales told with that
pardonable ancestral pride which seems inherent in every one. My
grandmother loved to cluster the children round her and tell them
that when she was a little girl she had knelt at the feet of Betty
Zane, and listened to the old lady as she told of her brother's
capture by the Indian Princess, of the burning of the Fort, and of
her own race for life. I knew these stories by heart when a child.

Two years ago my mother came to me with an old note book which had
been discovered in some rubbish that had been placed in the yard to
burn. The book had probably been hidden in an old picture frame for
many years. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Col. Ebenezer Zane.
From its faded and time-worn pages I have taken the main facts of my
story. My regret is that a worthier pen than mine has not had this
wealth of material.

In this busy progressive age there are no heroes of the kind so dear
to all lovers of chivalry and romance. There are heroes, perhaps,
but they are the patient sad-faced kind, of whom few take cognizance
as they hurry onward. But cannot we all remember some one who
suffered greatly, who accomplished great deeds, who died on the
battlefield--some one around whose name lingers a halo of glory? Few
of us are so unfortunate that we cannot look backward on kith or kin
and thrill with love and reverence as we dream of an act of heroism
or martyrdom which rings down the annals of time like the melody of
the huntsman's horn, as it peals out on a frosty October morn purer
and sweeter with each succeeding note.