deaths, and they enclosed
the piece of 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'
heads. "You haven't seen our big dam, have you? Everybody that comes to
Redford must see that, or father will want to know the reason why.
'Pennycuick's Folly' some people call it, because he spent so much
money on it; but father is not one to spoil the ship for a pen'orth of
paint. He likes to do things thoroughly. So do I."

And soon they halted on the embankment of a mile-wide sheet of water,
shining like a mirror in a setting of soft-bosomed hills, their dun day
colour changed to a heavenly rose-purple under the poetic evening sky.

"Why, it is a lake," said Guthrie Carey. "You could hold regattas on
it." "We do, now and then, with our little boats. We have three over
there"--pointing with he