“Burnt.”

She looked at him.

“But your carving?”

“I burned it.”

“When?”

She did not believe him.

“On Friday night.”

“When I was at the Marsh?”

“Yes.”

She said no more.

Then, when he had gone to work, she wept for a whole day, and was much chastened in spirit. So that a new, fragile flame of love came out of the ashes of this last pain.

Directly, it occurred to her that she was with child.