“No, no!  And I will not have it—­I cannot bear it, Chester.  You must promise not to go to see her again.  I won’t go into the house this night until you do.  I’ll stay out here in the bitter cold until you promise to put her out of your thoughts.”

“That’s beyond my power, mother.  Oh, mother, you’re making it hard for me.  Come in, come in!  You’re shivering with cold now.  You’ll be sick.”

“Not a step will I stir till you promise.  Say you won’t go to see that girl any more, and there’s nothing I won’t do for you.  But if you put her before me, I’ll not go in—­I never will go in.”

With most women this would have been an empty threat; but it was not so with Thyra, and Chester knew it.  He knew she would keep her word.  And he feared more than that.  In this frenzy of hers what might she not do?  She came of a strange breed, as had been said disapprovingly when Luke Carewe married her.  There was a strain of insanity in the Lincolns.  A Lincoln woman had drowned herself once.  Chester thought of the river, and grew sick with fright.  For a moment even his passion for Damaris weakened before the older tie.

“Mother, calm yourself.  Oh, surely there’s no need of all this!  Let us wait until to-morrow, and talk it over then.  I’ll hear all you have to say.  Come in, dear.”

Thyra loosened her arms from about him, and stepped back into a moon-lit space.  Looking at him tragically, she extended her arms and spoke slowly and solemnly.

“Chester, choose between us.  If you choose her, I shall go from you to-night, and you will never see me again!”

“Mother!”

“Choose!” she reiterated, fiercely.

He felt her long ascendancy.  Its influence was not to be shaken off in a moment.  In all his life he had never disobeyed her.  Besides, with it all, he loved her more deeply and understandingly than most sons love their mothers.  He realized that, since she would have it so, his choice was already made—­or, rather that he had no choice.

“Have your way,” he said sullenly.

She ran to him and caught him to her heart.  In the reaction of her feeling she was half laughing, half crying.  All was well again—­all would be well; she never doubted this, for she knew he would keep his ungracious promise sacredly.

“Oh, my son, my son,” she murmured, “you’d have sent me to my death if you had chosen otherwise.  But now you are mine again!”

She did not heed that he was sullen—­that he resented her unjustice with all her own intensity.  She did not heed his silence as they went into the house together.  Strangely enough, she slept well and soundly that night.  Not until many days had passed did she understand that, though Chester might keep his promise in the letter, it was beyond his power to keep it in the spirit.  She had taken him from Damaris Garland; but she had not won him back to herself.  He could never be wholly