white marble, bearing in gilt letters the name “Cornelia Graham, aged twenty-three.”  It was in the form of a temple, with slender fluted columns supporting the portico; and on the ornate capitals was inscribed in corresponding gilt characters, “Silentio! silentio!” At the entrance stood two winged forms, crowned with wreaths of poppies; and a pair of beautiful vases held withered flowers.  Beulah sat on the marble steps.  Before her stretched aisles of tombstones; the sunshine sparkled on their polished surfaces, and was reflected as from countless mirrors.  Myrtle and laurel trees waved gently in the icy north wind, and stately, solemn cedars kept guard in every inclosure.  All was silent and still, save those funereal evergreen boughs which stirred softly as if fearful of disturbing the pale sleepers around them.  Human nature shrinks appalled from death and all that accompanies it; but in the deep repose, the sacred hush, which reigned over the silent city, there was for Beulah something inexpressibly soothing.  In a neighboring lot she could see a simple white slab Eugene had erected over the remains of the friend of their childhood.  Her labors ended, the matron slept near the forms of Lilly and Cornelia.  Here winter rains fell unheeded, and here the balmy breath of summer brought bright blossoms and luxuriant verdure.  Mocking-birds sang cheerfully in the sentinel cedars, and friends wandered slowly over the shelled walks, recalling the past.  Here there was no gloom to affright the timid soul; all was serene and inviting.  Why should the living shrink from a resting-place so hallowed and peaceful?  And why should death be invested with fictitious horrors?  A procession entered one of the gates, and wound along the carriage road to a remote corner of the burying-ground.  The slow, measured tread of the horses, the crush of wheels on the rocky track, and the smothered sobs of the mourners, all came in subdued tones to Beulah’s ears.  Then the train disappeared, and she was again in solitude.  Looking up, her eyes rested on the words above her:  “Silentio! silentio!” They were appropriate, indeed, upon the monument of her who had gone down into the tomb so hopelessly, so shudderingly.  Years had passed since the only child had been laid here; yet the hour of release was as fresh in Beulah’s memory as though she had seen the convulsed features but yesterday; and the words repeated that night seemed now to issue from the marble lips of the statues beside her:  “For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.”  With her cheek on her hand, the orphan sat pondering the awful mystery which darkened the last hour of the young sleeper; and, looking back over her own life, during the season when she “was without God and without hope,” she saw that only unbelief had clothed death with terror.  Once she stood on this same spot, and with trembling horror saw the coffin lowered.  Had death touched her then, she would have shrunk appalled from the summons; but now it was otherwise.