“I wish we could have done better for him,” said the stranger; “but many a fine fellow sleeps under such a monument as that.”
I need not dwell upon our grief as we watched these proceedings. I was sure that the sooner Clarice was away from the spot the better it would be for her; so, as the leader of the emigrant train did not wish to delay longer than was necessary, I assisted in harnessing the animals to our waggon, and we at once moved on.
I was walking beside our new friend, when he asked me my name.
“Ralph Middlemore,” I replied; “and my sister is called Clarice.”
“Ralph!” repeated the stranger; “that was my father’s name.”
“I was called after my grandfather,” I observed,—“Ralph Crockett.”
I do not know how I came to say that. My companion started, and gazing at me attentively, asked,—“What was your mother’s name?”
“Mary.”
“Where is she now?” he inquired eagerly.
“She died after we began this sad journey,” I said.