s shine, and the
birds will sing, for paupers!

I ordered a small white marble cross; it stands underneath the trees at
the head of the little green grove. When the head mason asked me what
name was to be put upon it, I was puzzled. Only Heaven knew whether the
helpless little child had a claim to any name, and, if so, what that
name was. I bethought myself of one name; it meant bitterness of deep
waters.

"I will call it 'Marah,'" I said, and the name stands there on the
marble cross:

"Marah, aged three weeks. Found drowned in the sea, September, 18--."

Only one small grave among so many, but a grave over which no mother has
shed a tear. Then, after a few days more, I forgot almost all about it;
yet at that time I was so lonely, so utterly desolate, that I felt some
kind of tie bound me to the little grave, and made me love the spot. It
was soon all forgotten, but I never forgot the beautiful, despairing
face I had seen on the pier that night--the face that seemed to have
passed me with the quickness of a swift wind, yet which was impressed on
my brain forever.

I have been writing to you, dear reader, behind a veil; let me draw it
aside. My name is John Ford--by no means a romantic name--but I come of
a good family. I am one of the world's unfortunates. I had neither
brother nor sister; my father and mother died while I was quite young;
they left me a large fortune, but no relations--no one to love me. My
guardian was a stern, grave elderly man; my youth was lonely, my manhood
more lonely still. I found a fair and dainty love, but she proved false;
she left me for one who had more gold and a title to give her. When I
lost her, all my happiness died; the only consolation I found was going
about from place to place trying to do good where I could. This little
incident on the Chain Pier aroused me more than anything had done for
some time.

I had one comfort in life--a friend whom I loved dearer than a brother,
Lancelot Fleming; and lately he had come into possession of a very nice
estate called Dutton Manor, a fine old mansion, standing in the midst of
an extensive park, and with it an income of three thousand per annum.
Lance Fleming had been brought up to the bar, but he never cared much
for his profession, and was much pleased when he succeeded to his
cousin's estate.

He had invited me several times to visit Dutton Manor, but something or
other had always intervened to prevent it. Lance came to see me; we