Angel by B.M. Croker

THUS ended the butterfly career of pretty Lena Wilkinson, who looked surprisingly fair and girlish, as she lay with her hands crossed on her heart, surrounded by white flowers. She had passed at dawn; sunset witnessed her interment, and a considerable company-in fact, the whole station-followed the coffin, which was covered with pale blue and silver, by the dead woman's particular desire. The ground in the arid cemetery was almost as hard as rock, and the _cortège_ was compelled to halt for a time, whilst the grave was made ready and enlarged. What a depressing scene for a newly-arrived exile! The brick-coloured ground, weather-stained headstones, haggard clergyman, and wan-faced assembly-the gay and glittering coffin waiting till inhospitable alien soil was prepared to receive it. Over all was the stare of a triumphant red sun, sinking slowly into the arms of a tropical night.

At last the service was concluded, and whilst the earth was noisily flung upon the blue and silver coffin and the mourners were dispersing, the station cynic, as he walked towards the gate, pronounced the epitaph of the deceased: