“My mother died, too,” he said. “And my father is afraid I will die if I make my life felling trees. So I humour him and teach school and he humours me and excuses me from his services to build him furniture or chop his wood. I’m making a threshold, by the way. For the church or the school, I haven’t decided.”
“Perhaps for a home of your own?” she asked.
The sound of voices rising in chorus came to them through the open window. The service was ending.
“I’m nineteen,” he said.
Now, Philip watched her for a moment, then set a log on the stump and raised his axe. The log cracked in half. He kicked it aside with his boot, scooped up another. A hard bubble lodged near her heart. She felt it front and back, too. She took off her mitten and placed her palm against her chest. Her stomach bur
