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 pines, yet still with a stillness which exaggerated their every sound and motion, stood the painted palings, the simply storied pedestal, the granite column snapped like a mast. And the spirit of the sepulchre, which all who came there must feel, was one unattainable in sunlit, sweet-smelling cemetery or cool cathedral crypt. It brought the living nearer to the dead; it left the dead more convincingly at peace and rest for ever.

Still bare-headed, the man crept forward and read—

SACRED

CECIL GORTON GILES,

BORN AT HAMPSTEAD, LONDON,

May 15th, 1833,

DIED AT ARRAN DOWNS, N.S.W.,

January 4th, 1875.

"How sad!" murmured Fullarton. "I know of nothing in life like the pity of a