There was carving again, on this plank. The letters F. and A.
appeared on it.

He put down the ax. There were vague misgivings in him which he
was not able to realize. The state of his own mind was fast
becoming a puzzle to him.

"More carving," he said to himself. "That's the way these young
idlers employ their long hours. F. A.? Those must be _his_
initials--Frank Aldersley. Who carved the letters on the other
plank? Frank Aldersley, too?"

He turned the piece of wood in his hand nearer to the light, and
looked lower down it. More carving again, lower down! Under the
initials F. A. were two more letters--C. B.

"C. B.?" he repeated to himself. "His sweet heart's initials, I
suppose? Of course--at his age--his sweetheart's initials."

He paused once more. A spasm of inner pain showed the shadow of
its mysterious passage, outwardly on his face.

"_Her_ cipher is C. B.," he said, in low, broken tones. "C.
B.--Clara Burnham."

He waited, with the plank in his hand; repeating the name over
and over again, as if it was a question he was putting to
himself.

"Clara Burnham? Clara Burnham?"