Marrying! She had never thought of it in connection with him.
He did not come of a marrying race. His father had been sixty
when he had married her, Thyra Lincoln, likewise well on in life.
Few of the Lincolns or Carewes had married young, many not at
all. And, to her, Chester was her baby still. He belonged
solely to her.
And now another woman had dared to look upon him with eyes of
love. Damaris Garland! Thyra now remembered seeing her. She
was a new-comer in Avonlea, having come to live with her uncle
and aunt after the death of her mother. Thyra had met her on the
bridge one day a month previously. Yes, a man might think she
was pretty--a low-browed girl, with a wave of reddish-gold hair,
and crimson lips blossoming out against the strange,
milk-whiteness of her skin. Her eyes, too--Thyra recalled them--
hazel in tint, deep, and laughter-brimmed.
The girl had gone past her with a smile that brought out many
dimples. There was a certain insolent quality in her beauty, as
if it flaunted itself somewhat too defiantly in the beholder's
eye. Thyra had turned and looked after the lithe, young
creature, wondering who she might be.
And to-night, while she, his mother, waited for him in darkness
and loneliness, he was down at Blair's, talking to this girl! He
loved her; and it was past doubt that she loved him. The thought
was more bitter than death to Thyra. That she should dare! Her
anger was all against the girl.
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