He was a gossip and Thyra
hated gossip, in man or woman. But August was privileged.
She carried the lamp in her hand, when she went to the door, and
its upward-striking light gave her face a ghastly appearance.
She did not mean to ask August in, but he pushed past her
cheerfully, not waiting to be invited. He was a midget of a man,
lame of foot and hunched of back, with a white, boyish face,
despite his middle age and deep-set, malicious black eyes.
He pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket and handed it to
Thyra. He was the unofficial mail-carrier of Avonlea. Most of
the people gave him a trifle for bringing their letters and
papers from the office. He earned small sums in various other
ways, and so contrived to keep the life in his stunted body.
There was always venom in August's gossip. It was said that he
made more mischief in Avonlea in a day than was made otherwise in
a year, but people tolerated him by reason of his infirmity. To
be sure, it was the tolerance they gave to inferior creatures,
and August felt this. Perhaps it accounted for a good deal of
his malignity. He hated most those who were kindest to him, and,
of these, Thyra Carewe above all. He hated Chester, too, as he
hated strong, shapely creatures. His time had come at last to
wound them both, and his exultation shone through his crooked
body and pinched features like an illuminating lamp. Thyra
perceived it and vaguely felt something antagonistic in it.
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