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 traveled together; we were the very opposite of each other.  He was frank, gay, cheerful, always laughing, always with some grand jest on the tapis—­a laughing, sunny, blue-eyed fellow, who was like a sunbeam in every house he entered; he was always either whistling or singing, and his bright, cheery voice trolled out such snatches of sweet song that it was a pleasure to hear him.

I am naturally melancholy, and have a tendency to look always on the dark side of things.  You can imagine how I loved Lance Fleming; the love that other men give to wives, children, parents and relatives I lavished on him.  I loved his fair, handsome face, his laughing blue eyes, his sunny smile, his cheery voice; I loved his warm-hearted, genial manner.  In fact, I loved the whole man, just as he was, with a love passing that of women—­loved him as I shall love no other.