it had not been dropped.

The death of this one little child, whom no one knew and for whom no one cared, was of less than no account; it made a small paragraph in the newspapers—it had caused some little commotion on the pier—just a little hurry at the work-house, and then it was forgotten. What was such a little waif and stray—such a small, fair, tender little creature to the gay crowd?

"A child found drowned by the Chain Pier." Kind-hearted, motherly women shrugged their shoulders with a sigh. The finding or the death of such hapless little ones is, alas! not rare. I do not think of the hundreds who carelessly heard the words that morning there was one who stopped to think of the possible suffering of the child. It is a wide step from the warmth of a mother's arms to the chill of the deep-sea water. The gay tide of fashion ebbed and flowed just the same; the band played on the Chain Pier the morning following; the sunbeams danced on the water—there was nothing to remind one of the little life so suddenly and terribly closed.

There was not much more to tell. There was an inquest, but it was not of much use. Every one knew that the child had been drowned; the doctor thought it had been drugged before it was drowned; there was very little to be said about it. Jim, the boatman, proved the finding of it. The coroner said a few civil words when he heard that one of the visitors of the town, out of sheer pity, had offered to defray the expenses of the little funeral.

The little unknown babe, who had spent the night in the deep sea, was buried in the cemetery on the Lewes Road. I bought a grave for her under the spreading boughs of a tree; she had a white pall and a quantity of white flowers. The matron from the work-house went, and it was not at all like a pauper's funeral. The sun was shining, and the balmy air was filled with the song of birds; but then the sun does 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 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.

Naturally enough, Lance was a great favorite with the ladies; every woman who saw him loved him more or less. He was quite irresistible when, in addition to his handsome face and sweet temper, came the charm of being master of a grand old manor-house, with three thousand per annum. No wonder that he was popular. The only thing which troubled me about Lance was his marriage; I always feared it. With his gay, passionate temperament, his universal admiration and chivalrous manner of treating the fair sex, it was certain that he would, sooner or later, fall in love and marry. From what I knew of him, from the innate conviction of my own love, I felt sure that his marriage would be the hinge on which his whole life would turn. I was very anxious about it, and talked to him a great deal about it when we were together.

"If you marry the right woman, Lance," I said to him, "you will be one of the happiest and most successful men in the world; but if you should make a mistake, you will be one of the most miserable."

"I shall make no mistake, John. I know that somewhere or other the most adorable woman in the whole world is waiting for me. I shall be sure to find her, and fall in love with her, marry her, and live happy forever afterward."

"But you will be careful, Lance?" I said.

"As careful as a man can be; but, John, as you are so anxious, you had better choose for me."

"No," I replied. "I made so great a mistake when I had to choose for myself that I shall never attempt it again."

Circumstances happened that drew me over to America. I had a large interest in some land there, and not caring about the trouble of it, I went over to sell it. I succeeded in selling it to great profit, and as I liked America I remained there three years. I sailed for America in the month of October, two or three weeks after the incident of the Chain Pier, and I returned to England after an absence of three years and seven months. I found myself at home again when the lovely month of May was at its fairest. During all that time only one incident of any note happened to me, or, rather, happened that interested me. Lance Fleming was married.

He wrote whole volumes to me before his marriage, and he wrote whole volumes afterwards. Of course, she was perfection—nay, just a little beyond perfection, I think. She was beautiful, clever, accomplished, and such a darling—of course, I might be sure of that. One thing only was wanted to make him perfectly happy—it was that I should see his lady-love. Her name was Frances Wynn, and he assured me that it was the most poetical name in the world. Page after page of rhapsody did he write and I read, until at last I believed him, that he had found the one perfect woman in the world.

Lance wrote oftener still when I told him that I was coming home. I must go at once to