land. Then a brother of Mr Dalzell's, and a girl; and Mr Dalzell
himself wished to be put here, beside his brother. Not his wife, she
wouldn't; she lies in the Melbourne cemetery. Then some of our babies,
then mother. She was the last. I don't suppose there will be any more
now. The State will insist on taking charge of us."

Real English churchyard elms crowded about the wall and blightingly
overshadowed the lonely group of graves. English ivy, instead of neatly
clothing the wall, as it had been meant to do, straggled wildly over
the part of the enclosure which had once been a garden around them. Out
of it, like sea-stripped wrecks, dead sticks of rose-bushes poked up,
and ragged things that had gone to seed. The turf was parched away,
like the grass of the surrounding paddocks; the mounds were cracked;
the head-stones--several of them ornate and costly--stained with the
drip from the trees and birds, and some distinctly out of the
perpendicular.

"It ought not to look like this," Deb apologised for it. "It
ought to have been seen to. We used to come often, and bring water from
the dam. But one forgets as time goes on; one doesn't think--or care.
Poor dead people! How out of it they are! And we shall be the same some
day--neglected and abandoned, just like this."

"DON'T!" muttered Guthrie Carey, shivering. The ghost of his sweet Lily
seemed to reproach him with Deb's voice. But the ghost-woman fifteen
months old had no chance with the glowing live woman born into his life
but yesterday; and no blame to him either, and no wrong to the dead, if
one can look at the thing dispassionately and with an unbiased mind.

"Let us go and see the dam," Deb cheered him, as she turned the ponies'