She recognized August Vorst’s knock and lighted a lamp in no great haste, for she did not like him.  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.  She pointed to the rocking-chair, as she might have pointed out a mat to a dog.

August crawled into it and smiled.  He was going to make her writhe presently, this woman who looked down upon him as some venomous creeping thing she disdained to crush with her foot.

“Did you see anything of Chester on the road?” asked Thyra, giving August the very opening he desired.  “He went to the harbor after tea to see Joe Raymond about the loan of his boat, but it’s the time he should be back.  I can’t think what keeps the boy.”

“Just what keeps most men—­leaving out creatures like me—­at some time or other in their lives.  A girl—­a pretty girl, Thyra.  It pleases me to look at her.  Even a hunchback can use his eyes, eh?  Oh, she’s a rare one!”

“What is the man talking about?” said Thyra wonderingly.

“Damaris Garland, to be sure.  Chester’s down at Tom Blair’s now, talking to her—­and looking more than his tongue says, too, of that you may be sure.  Well, well, we were all young once, Thyra—­all young once, even crooked little August Vorst.  Eh, now?”

“What do you mean?” said Thyra.

She had sat down in a chair before him, with her hands folded in her lap.  Her face, always pale, had not changed; but her lips were curiously white.  August Vorst saw this and it pleased him.  Also, her eyes were worth looking at, if you liked to hurt people—­and that was the only pleasure August took in life.  He would drink this delightful cup of revenge for her long years of disdainful kindness—­ah, he would drink it slowly to prolong its sweetness.  Sip by sip—­he rubbed his long, thin, white hands together—­sip by sip, tasting each mouthful.