She got up, wrapped a shawl about her head, and went out into the darkly golden evening.  The clouds had cleared away, and the moon was shining.  The air was chill, with a bell-like clearness.  The alders by the river rustled eerily as she walked by them and out upon the bridge.  Here she paced up and down, peering with troubled eyes along the road beyond, or leaning over the rail, looking at the sparkling silver ribbon of moonlight that garlanded the waters.  Late travelers passed her, and wondered at her presence and mien.  Carl White saw her, and told his wife about her when he got home.

“Striding to and fro over the bridge like mad!  At first I thought it was old, crazy May Blair.  What do you suppose she was doing down there at this hour of the night?”

“Watching for Ches, no doubt,” said Cynthia.  “He ain’t home yet.  Likely he’s snug at Blairs’.  I do wonder if Thyra suspicions that he goes after Damaris.  I’ve never dared to hint it to her.  She’d be as liable to fly at me, tooth and claw, as not.”

“Well, she picks out a precious queer night for moon-gazing,” said Carl, who was a jolly soul and took life as he found it.  “It’s bitter cold—­there’ll be a hard frost.  It’s a pity she can’t get it grained into her that the boy is grown up and must have his fling like the other lads.  She’ll go out of her mind yet, like her old grandmother Lincoln, if she doesn’t ease up.  I’ve a notion to go down to the bridge and reason a bit with her.”

“Indeed, and you’ll do no such thing!” cried Cynthia.  “Thyra Carewe is best left alone, if she is in a tantrum.  She’s like no other woman in Avonlea—­or out of it.  I’d as soon meddle with a tiger as her, if she’s rampaging about Chester.  I don’t envy Damaris Garland her life if she goes in there.  Thyra’d sooner strangle her than not, I guess.”

“You women are all terrible hard on Thyra,” said Carl, good-naturedly.  He had been in love with Thyra, himself, long ago, and he still liked her in a friendly fashion.  He always stood up for her when the Avonlea women ran her down.  He felt troubled about her all night, recalling her as she paced the bridge.  He wished he had gone back, in spite of Cynthia.

When Chester came home he met his mother on the bridge.  In the faint, yet penetrating, moonlight they looked curiously alike, but Chester had the milder face.  He was very handsome.  Even in the seething of her pain and jealousy Thyra yearned over his beauty.  She would have liked to put up her hands and caress his face, but her voice was very hard when she asked him where he had been so late.

“I called in at Tom Blair’s on my way home from the harbor,” he answered, trying to walk on.  But she held him back by his arm.

“Did you go there to see Damaris?” she demanded fiercely.