Tell her to come to me for Chester's sake."
Cynthia did as she was bid, she sent her daughter, Jeanette, for
Damaris. Then she waited. No matter what duties were calling
for her at home she must see the interview between Thyra and
Damaris. Her curiosity would be the last thing to fail Cynthia
White. She had done very well all day; but it would be asking
too much of her to expect that she would consider the meeting of
these two women sacred from her eyes.
She half believed that Damaris would refuse to come. But Damaris
came. Jeanette brought her in amid the fiery glow of a November
sunset. Thyra stood up, and for a moment they looked at each
other.
The insolence of Damaris' beauty was gone. Her eyes were dull
and heavy with weeping, her lips were pale, and her face had lost
its laughter and dimples. Only her hair, escaping from the shawl
she had cast around it, gushed forth in warm splendor in the
sunset light, and framed her wan face like the aureole of a
Madonna. Thyra looked upon her with a shock of remorse. This
was not the radiant creature she had met on the bridge that
summer afternoon. This--this--was HER work. She held out her
arms.
"Oh, Damaris, forgive me. We both loved him--that must be a bond
between us for life."
Damaris came forward and threw her arms about the older woman,
lifting her face. As their lips met even Cynthia White realized
that she had no business there.
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