My little Mary. She is gone away to play; she will look at the crowd
from the coach-window, and already she thinks no more of the
“Gentleman.” Perhaps I may still have time to write a few pages for her,
so that she may read them hereafter, and weep, in fifteen years hence,
the sorrows of to-day. Yes, she shall know my history from myself, and
why the name I leave her is tarnished.