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.