The Branding Iron

Then Joan did look at him with all her eyes.

"I am Pierre's wife," she said. The liquid beauty had left her voice.

It was hoarse and dry. "I am Pierre's wife and I have already been the

mother of your child."

There was a long, rigid silence. "Joan--when?--where?" Prosper's

throat clicked.

"I knew it before you left. I couldn't tell you because you were so

changed. I worked all winter. It--it was born on an awful cold March

night. I think the woman let it--made it--die. She wanted me to work

for her during the summer and she thought I would be glad if the child

didn't live. She used to say I was 'in trouble' and she'd be glad if

she could 'help me out.'... It was what I was planning to live for ...

that child."

During the heavy stillness following Joan's dreadful, brief account of

birth and death, Prosper went through a strange experience. It seemed

to him that in his soul something was born and died. Always afterwards

there was a ghost in him--the father that might have been.

"I can't talk any more," said Joan faintly. "Won't you please go?"