He knew quite well that Thyra
was at the bottom of the sudden coldness between Chester Carewe
and Damaris Garland, about which Avonlea gossip was busying
itself. He pitied Thyra, too. She had aged rapidly the past
month.
"You're too hard on Chester, Thyra. He's out of leading-strings
now, or should be. You must just let me take an old friend's
privilege, and tell you that you're taking the wrong way with
him. You're too jealous and exacting, Thyra."
"You don't know anything about it. You have never had a son,"
said Thyra, cruelly enough, for she knew that Carl's sonlessness
was a rankling thorn in his mind. "You don't know what it is to
pour out your love on one human being, and have it flung back in
your face!"
Carl could not cope with Thyra's moods. He had never understood
her, even in his youth. Now he went home, still shrugging his
shoulders, and thinking that it was a good thing Thyra had not
looked on him with favor in the old days. Cynthia was much
easier to get along with.
More than Thyra looked anxiously to sea and sky that night in
Avonlea. Damaris Garland listened to the smothered roar of the
Atlantic in the murky northeast with a prescience of coming
disaster. Friendly longshoremen shook their heads and said that
Ches and Joe would better have kept to good, dry land.
"It's sorry work joking with a November gale," said Abel Blair.
He was an old man and, in his life, had seen some sad things
along the shore.
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