She
sat down by the stricken creature and put her arms about her,
while she gathered the cold hands in her own warm clasp. The
tears filled her big, blue eyes and her voice trembled as she
said:
"Thyra, I'm sorry for you. I--I--lost a child once--my little
first-born. And Chester was a dear, good lad."
For a moment Thyra strained her small, tense body away from
Cynthia's embrace. Then she shuddered and cried out. The tears
came, and she wept her agony out on the other woman's breast.
As the ill news spread, other Avonlea women kept dropping in all
through the day to condole with Thyra. Many of them came in real
sympathy, but some out of mere curiosity to see how she took it.
Thyra knew this, but she did not resent it, as she would once
have done. She listened very quietly to all the halting efforts
at consolation, and the little platitudes with which they strove
to cover the nakedness of bereavement.
When darkness came Cynthia said she must go home, but would send
one of her girls over for the night.
"You won't feel like staying alone," she said.
Thyra looked up steadily.
"No. But I want you to send for Damaris Garland."
"Damaris Garland!" Cynthia repeated the name as if disbelieving
her own ears. There was never any knowing what whim Thyra might
take, but Cynthia had not expected this.
"Yes. Tell her I want her--tell her she must come. She must
hate me bitterly; but I am punished enough to satisfy even her
hate.
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