them she did to
the utmost. She and Jane made calls together, entertained friends at
small and stately dinners, and gave little teas. They drove about in the
old Carew carriage. Viola had some new clothes. She played very well on
Jane's old piano. She embroidered, she gardened. She lived the sweet,
placid life of an older lady in a little village, and loved it. She
never mentioned Harold Lind.

Not among the vicious of the earth was poor Harold Lind; rather among
those of such beauty and charm that the earth spoils them, making
them, in their own estimation, free guests at all its tables of bounty.
Moreover, the young man had, deeply rooted in his character, the traits
of a mischievous child, rejoicing in his mischief more from a sense of
humor so keen that it verged on cruelty than from any intention to
harm others. Over that affair of the amethyst comb, for instance, his
irresponsible, selfish, childish soul had fairly reveled in glee. He had
not been fond of Viola, but he liked her fondness for himself. He had
made sport of her, but only for his own entertainment--never for the
entertainment of others. He was a beautiful creature, seeking out paths
of pleasure and folly for himself alone, which ended as do all paths of
earthly pleasure and folly. Harold had admired Viola, but from the same
point of view as Jane Carew's. Viola had, when she looked her youngest
and best, always seemed so old as to be venerable to him. He had at
times compunctions, as if he were making a jest of his grandmother.
Viola never knew the truth about the amethyst comb. He had considered
that one of the best frolics of his life. He had simply purloined it and
presented it to Viola, and merrily left matters to settle themselves.

Viola and Jane had lived together a month before the comb was mentioned.
Then one day Viola was in Jane's room and the jewel-case was out, and
she began examining its contents. When she found the amethyst comb she
gave a little cry. Jane, who had been seated at her desk and had not
seen what was going on, turned around.

Viola stood holding the comb, and her cheeks were burning. She fondled
the trinket as if it had been a baby. Jane watched her. She began to
understand the bare facts of the mystery of the disappearance of her
amethyst comb, but the subtlety of it was forever beyond her. Had the
other woman explained what was in her mind, in her heart--how that
reckless young man whom she had loved had given her the t