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.  She vented the irritation of her embarrassment on the innocent Jeanette.

“Come away,” she whispered crossly.  “Can’t you see we’re not wanted here?”

She drew Jeanette out, leaving Thyra rocking Damaris in her arms, and crooning over her like a mother over her child.

When December had grown old Damaris was still with Thyra.  It was understood that she was to remain there for the winter, at least.  Thyra could not bear her to be out of her sight.  They talked constantly about Chester; Thyra confessed all her anger and hatred.  Damaris had forgiven her; but Thyra could never forgive herself.  She was greatly changed, and had grown very gentle and tender.  She even sent for August Vorst and begged him to pardon her for the way she had spoken to him.

Winter came late that year, and the season was a very open one.  There was no snow on the ground and, a month after Joe Raymond’s boat had been cast up on the Blue Point sand shore, Thyra, wandering about in her garden, found some pansies blooming under their tangled leaves.  She was picking them for Damaris when she heard a buggy rumble over the bridge and drive up the White lane, hidden from her sight by the alders and firs.  A few minutes later Carl and Cynthia came hastily across their yard under the huge balm-of-gileads.  Carl’s face was flushed, and his big body quivered with excitement.  Cynthia ran behind him, with tears rolling down her face.

Thyra felt herself growing sick with fear.  Had anything happened to Damaris?  A glimpse of the girl, sewing by an upper window of the house, reassured her.

“Oh, Thyra, Thyra!” gasped Cynthia.

“Can you stand some good news, Thyra?” asked Carl, in a trembling voice.  “Very, very good news!”

Thyra looked wildly from one to the other.

“There’s but one thing you would dare to call good news to me,” she cried.  “Is it about—­about—­”

“Chester!  Yes, it’s about Chester!  Thyra, he is alive—­he’s safe—­he and Joe, both of them, thank God!  Cynthia, catch her!”

“No, I am not going to faint,” said Thyra, steadying herself by Cynthia’s shoulder.  “My son alive!  How did you hear?  How did it happen?  Where has he been?”