The Amethyst Comb

The Amethyst Comb

MISS JANE CAREW was at the railroad station
waiting for the New York train. She was
about to visit her friend, Mrs. Viola Longstreet.
With Miss Carew was her maid, Margaret, a middle-
aged New England woman, attired in the stiffest
and most correct of maid-uniforms. She carried an
old, large sole-leather bag, and also a rather large
sole-leather jewel-case. The jewel-case, carried
openly, was rather an unusual sight at a New Eng-
land railroad station, but few knew what it was.
They concluded it to be Margaret's special hand-
bag. Margaret was a very tall, thin woman, un-
bending as to carriage and expression. The one
thing out of absolute plumb about Margaret was
her little black bonnet. That was askew. Time
had bereft the woman of so much hair that she could
fasten no head-gear with security, especially when
the wind blew, and that morning there was a stiff
gale. Margaret's bonnet was cocked over one eye.
Miss Carew noticed it.

"Margaret, your bonnet is crooked," she said.

Margaret straightened her bonnet, but immedi-
ately the bonnet veered again to the side, weighted
by a stiff jet aigrette. Miss Carew observed the
careen of the bonnet, realized that it was inevitable,
and did not mention it again. Inwardly she resolved
upon the removal of the jet aigrette later on. Miss
Carew was slightly older than Margaret, and dressed
in a style somewhat beyond her age. Jane Carew
had been alert upon the situation of departing youth.
She had eschewed gay colors and extreme cuts, and
had her bonnets made to order, because there were
no longer anything but hats in the millinery shop.
The milliner in Wheaton, where Miss Carew lived,
had objected, for Jane Carew inspired reverence.

"A bonnet is too old for you. Miss Carew," she
said. "Women much older than you wear hats."

"I trust that I know what is becoming to a woman
of my years, thank you. Miss Waters," Jane had
replied, and the milliner had meekly taken her order.

After Miss Carew had left, the milliner told her
girls that she had never seen a woman so perfectly
crazy to look her age as Miss Carew. "And she a
pretty woman, too," said the milliner; "as straight
as an arrer, and slim, and with all that hair, scarcely
turned at all."

Miss Carew, with all her haste to assume years,
remained a pretty woman, softly slim, with an abun-
dance of dark hair, showing little gray. Sometimes
Jane reflected, uneasily, that it ought at her time
of life to be entirely gray. She hoped nobody would
suspect her of dyeing it. She wore it parted in the
middle, folded back smoothly, and braided in a
compact mass on the top of her head. The style
of her clothes was slightly behind the fashion, just
enough to suggest conservatism and age. She car-
ried a little silver-bound bag in one nicely gloved
hand; with the other she held daintily out of the
dust of the platform her dress-skirt. A glimpse of
a silk frilled petticoat, of slender feet, and ankles
delicately slim, was visible before the onslaught of
the wind. Jane Carew made no futile effort to keep
her skirts down before the wind-gusts. She was so
much of the gentlewoman that she could be gravely
oblivious to the exposure of her ankles. She looked
as if she had never heard of ankles when her black
silk skirts lashed about them. She rose superbly
above the situation. For some abstruse reason Mar-
garet's skirts were not affected by the wind. They
might have been weighted with buckram, although
it was no longer in general use. She stood, except
for her veering bonnet, as stiffly immovable as a
wooden doll.

Miss Carew seldom left Wheaton. This visit to
New York was an innovation. Quite a crowd gath-
ered about Jane's sole-leather trunk when it was
dumped on the platform by the local expressman.
"Miss Carew is going to New York," one said to
another, with much the same tone as if he had said,
"The great elm on the common is going to move
into Dr. Jones's front yard."

When the train arrived, Miss Carew, followed by
Margaret, stepped aboard with a majestic disregard
of ankles. She sat beside a window, and Margaret
placed the bag on the floor and held the jewel-case
in her lap. The case contained the Carew jewels.
They were not especially valuable, although they
were rather numerous. There were cameos in
brooches and heavy gold bracelets; corals which
Miss Carew had not worn since her young girlhood.
There were a set of garnets, some badly cut diamonds
in ear-rings and rings, some seed-pearl ornaments,
and a really beautiful set of amethysts. There were
a necklace, two brooches -- a bar and a circle -- ear-
rings, a ring, and a comb. Each piece was charm-
ing, set in filigree gold with seed-pearls, but perhaps
of them all the comb was the best. It was a very
large comb. There was one great amethyst in the
center of the top; on either side was an intricate
pattern of plums in small amethysts, and seed-pearl
grapes, with leaves and stems of gold. Margaret
in charge of the jewel-case was imposing. When
they arrived in New York she confronted every-
body whom she met with a stony stare, which was
almost accusative and convictive of guilt, in spite
of entire innocence on the part of the person stared
at. It was inconceivable that any mortal would
have dared lay violent hands upon that jewel-case
under that stare. It would have seemed to partake
of the nature of grand larceny from Providence.

When the two reached the up-town residence of
Viola Longstreet, Viola gave a little scream at the
sight of the case.

"My dear Jane Carew, here you are with Mar-
garet carrying that jewel-case out in plain sight.
How dare you do such a thing? I really wonder
you have not been held up a dozen times."

Miss Carew smiled her gentle but almost stern
smile -- the Carew smile, which consisted in a widen-
ing and slightly upward curving of tightly closed lips.

"I do not think," said she, "that anybody would
be apt to interfere with Margaret."

Viola Longstreet laughed, the ringing peal of a
child, although she was as old as Miss Carew. "I
think you are right, Jane," said she. "I don't be-
lieve a crook in New York would dare face that
maid of yours. He would as soon encounter Ply-
mouth Rock. I am glad you have brought your de-
lightful old jewels, although you never wear any-
thing except those lovely old pearl sprays and dull
diamonds."

"Now," stated Jane, with a little toss of pride,
"I have Aunt Felicia's amethysts."

"Oh, sure enough! I remember you did write
me last summer that she had died and you had the
amethysts at last. She must have been very old."

"Ninety-one."

"She might have given you the amethysts before.
You, of course, will wear them; and I -- am going
to borrow the corals!"

Jane Carew gasped.

"You do not object, do you, dear? I have a new
dinner-gown which clamors for corals, and my bank-
account is strained, and I could buy none equal to
those of yours, anyway."

"Oh, I do not object," said Jane Carew; still she
looked aghast.

Viola Longstreet shrieked with laughter. "Oh,
I know. You think the corals too young for me.
You have not worn them since you left off dotted
muslin. My dear, you insisted upon growing old
-- I insisted upon remaining young. I had two
new dotted muslins last summer. As for corals, I
would wear them in the face of an opposing army!
Do not judge me by yourself, dear. You laid hold
of Age and held him, although you had your com-
plexion and your shape and hair. As for me, I had
my complexion and kept it. I also had my hair
and kept it. My shape has been a struggle, but it
was worth while. I, my dear, have held Youth so
tight that he has almost choked to death, but held
him I have. You cannot deny it. Look at me,
Jane Carew, and tell me if, judging by my looks,
you can reasonably state that I have no longer the
right to wear corals."

Jane Carew looked. She smiled the Carew smile.
"You DO look very young, Viola," said Jane, "but
you are not."

"Jane Carew," said Viola, "I am young. May
I wear your corals at my dinner to-morrow night?"

"Why, of course, if you think --"

"If I think them suitable. My dear, if there
were on this earth ornaments more suitable to ex-
treme youth than corals, I would borrow them if you
owned them, but, failing that, the corals will answer.
Wait until you see me in that taupe dinner-gown
and the corals!"

Jane waited. She visited with Viola, whom she
loved, although they had little in common, partly
because of leading widely different lives, partly be-
cause of constitutional variations. She was dressed
for dinner fully an hour before it was necessary,
and she sat in the library reading when Viola
swept in.

Viola was really entrancing. It was a pity that
Jane Carew had such an unswerving eye for the
essential truth that it could not be appeased by
actual effect. Viola had doubtless, as she had said,
struggled to keep her slim shape, but she had kept
it, and, what was more, kept it without evidence
of struggle. If she was in the least hampered by
tight lacing and length of undergarment, she gave
no evidence of it as she curled herself up in a big
chair and (Jane wondered how she could bring her-
self to do it) crossed her legs, revealing one delicate
foot and ankle, silk-stockinged with taupe, and shod
with a coral satin slipper with a silver heel and a
great silver buckle. On Viola's fair round neck the
Carew corals lay bloomingly; her beautiful arms
were clasped with them; a great coral brooch with
wonderful carving confined a graceful fold of the
taupe over one hip, a coral comb surmounted the
shining waves of Viola's hair. Viola was an ash-
blonde, her complexion was as roses, and the corals
were ideal for her. As Jane regarded her friend's
beauty, however, the fact that Viola was not young,
that she was as old as herself, hid it and overshad-
owed it.

"Well, Jane, don't you think I look well in the
corals, after all?" asked Viola, and there was some-
thing pitiful in her voice.

When a man or a woman holds fast to youth, even
if successfully, there is something of the pitiful and
the tragic involved. It is the everlasting struggle
of the soul to retain the joy of earth, whose fleeting
distinguishes it from heaven, and whose retention
is not accomplished without an inner knowledge of
its futility.

"I suppose you do, Viola," replied Jane Carew,
with the inflexibility of fate, "but I really think
that only very young girls ought to wear corals."

Viola laughed, but the laugh had a minor cadence.
"But I AM a young girl, Jane," she said. "I MUST
be a young girl. I never had any girlhood when I
should have had. You know that."

Viola had married, when very young, a man old
enough to be her father, and her wedded life had been
a sad affair, to which, however, she seldom alluded.
Viola had much pride with regard to the inevitable
past.

"Yes," agreed Jane. Then she added, feeling
that more might be expected, "Of course I suppose
that marrying so very young does make a difference."

"Yes," said Viola, "it does. In fact, it makes of
one's girlhood an anti-climax, of which many dis-
pute the wisdom, as you do. But have it I will. Jane,
your amethysts are beautiful."

Jane regarded the clear purple gleam of a stone
on her arm. "Yes," she agreed, "Aunt Felicia's ame-
thysts have always been considered very beautiful."

"And such a full set," said Viola.

"Yes," said Jane. She colored a little, but Viola
did not know why. At the last moment Jane had
decided not to wear the amethyst comb, because it
seemed to her altogether too decorative for a woman
of her age, and she was afraid to mention it to Viola.
She was sure that Viola would laugh at her and in-
sist upon her wearing it.

"The ear-rings are lovely," said Viola. "My dear,
I don't see how you ever consented to have your
ears pierced."

"I was very young, and my mother wished me
to," replied Jane, blushing.

The door-bell rang. Viola had been covertly lis-
tening for it all the time. Soon a very beautiful
young man came with a curious dancing step into
the room. Harold Lind always gave the effect of
dancing when he walked. He always, moreover,
gave the effect of extreme youth and of the utmost
joy and mirth in life itself. He regarded everything
and everybody with a smile as of humorous appre-
ciation, and yet the appreciation was so good-
natured that it offended nobody.

"Look at me -- I am absurd and happy; look at
yourself, also absurd and happy; look at every-
body else likewise; look at life -- a jest so delicious
that it is quite worth one's while dying to be made
acquainted with it." That is what Harold Lind
seemed to say. Viola Longstreet became even more
youthful under his gaze; even Jane Carew regretted
that she had not worn her amethyst comb and be-
gan to doubt its unsuitability. Viola very soon
called the young man's attention to Jane's ame-
thysts, and Jane always wondered why she did not
then mention the comb. She removed a brooch and
a bracelet for him to inspect.

"They are really wonderful," he declared. "I
have never seen greater depth of color in amethysts."

"Mr. Lind is an authority on jewels," declared
Viola. The young man shot a curious glance at her,
which Jane remembered long afterward. It was one
of those glances which are as keystones to situations.

Harold looked at the purple stones with the ex-
pression of a child with a toy. There was much of
the child in the young man's whole appearance,
but of a mischievous and beautiful child, of whom
his mother might observe, with adoration and ill-
concealed boastfulness, "I can never tell what that
child will do next!"

Harold returned the bracelet and brooch to Jane,
and smiled at her as if amethysts were a lovely
purple joke between her and himself, uniting them
by a peculiar bond of fine understanding. "Exqui-
site, Miss Carew," he said. Then he looked at Viola.
"Those corals suit you wonderfully, Mrs. Long-
street," he observed, "but amethysts would also
suit you."

"Not with this gown," replied Viola, rather piti-
fully. There was something in the young man's
gaze and tone which she did not understand, but
which she vaguely quivered before.

Harold certainly thought the corals were too young
for Viola. Jane understood, and felt an unworthy
triumph. Harold, who was young enough in actual
years to be Viola's son, and was younger still by
reason of his disposition, was amused by the sight
of her in corals, although he did not intend to be-
tray his amusement. He considered Viola in corals
as too rude a jest to share with her. Had poor Viola
once grasped Harold Lind's estimation of her she
would have as soon gazed upon herself in her cof-
fin. Harold's comprehension of the essentials was
beyond Jane Carew's. It was fairly ghastly, par-
taking of the nature of X-rays, but it never disturbed
Harold Lind. He went along his dance-track undis-
turbed, his blue eyes never losing their high lights
of glee, his lips never losing their inscrutable smile
at some happy understanding between life and him-
self. Harold had fair hair, which was very smooth
and glossy. His skin was like a girl's. He was so
beautiful that he showed cleverness in an affecta-
tion of carelessness in dress. He did not like to wear
evening clothes, because they had necessarily to
be immaculate. That evening Jane regarded him
with an inward criticism that he was too handsome
for a man. She told Viola so when the dinner was
over and he and the other guests had gone.

"He is very handsome," she said, "but I never
like to see a man quite so handsome."

"You will change your mind when you see him
in tweeds," returned Viola. "He loathes evening
clothes."

Jane regarded her anxiously. There was some-
thing in Viola's tone which disturbed and shocked
her. It was inconceivable that Viola should be in
love with that youth, and yet -- "He looks very
young," said Jane in a prim voice.

"He IS young," admitted Viola; "still, not quite
so young as he looks. Sometimes I tell him he will
look like a boy if he lives to be eighty."

"Well, he must be very young," persisted Jane.

"Yes," said Viola, but she did not say how young.
Viola herself, now that the excitement was over,
did not look so young as at the beginning of the
evening. She removed the corals, and Jane con-
sidered that she looked much better without
them.

"Thank you for your corals, dear," said Viola.
"Where Is Margaret?"

Margaret answered for herself by a tap on the
door. She and Viola's maid, Louisa, had been sit-
ting on an upper landing, out of sight, watching the
guests down-stairs. Margaret took the corals and
placed them in their nest in the jewel-case, also the
amethysts, after Viola had gone. The jewel-case
was a curious old affair with many compartments.
The amethysts required two. The comb was so
large that it had one for itself. That was the reason
why Margaret did not discover that evening that it
was gone. Nobody discovered it for three days,
when Viola had a little card-party. There was a
whist-table for Jane, who had never given up the
reserved and stately game. There were six tables
in Viola's pretty living-room, with a little conserva-
tory at one end and a leaping hearth fire at the other.
Jane's partner was a stout old gentleman whose wife
was shrieking with merriment at an auction-bridge
table. The other whist-players were a stupid, very
small young man who was aimlessly willing to play
anything, and an amiable young woman who be-
lieved in self-denial. Jane played conscientiously.
She returned trump leads, and played second hand
low, and third high, and it was not until the third
rubber was over that she saw. It had been in full
evidence from the first. Jane would have seen it
before the guests arrived, but Viola had not put it
in her hair until the last moment. Viola was wild
with delight, yet shamefaced and a trifle uneasy.
In a soft, white gown, with violets at her waist, she
was playing with Harold Lind, and in her ash-blond
hair was Jane Carew's amethyst comb. Jane gasped
and paled. The amiable young woman who was her
opponent stared at her. Finally she spoke in a low
voice.

"Aren't you well. Miss Carew?" she asked.

The men, in their turn, stared. The stout one
rose fussily. "Let me get a glass of water," he said.
The stupid small man stood up and waved his hands
with nervousness.

"Aren't you well?" asked the amiable young lady
again.

Then Jane Carew recovered her poise. It was
seldom that she lost it. "I am quite well, thank you,
Miss Murdock," she replied. "I believe diamonds
are trumps."

They all settled again to the play, but the young
lady and the two men continued glancing at Miss
Carew. She had recovered her dignity of manner,
but not her color. Moreover, she had a bewildered
expression. Resolutely she abstained from glancing
again at her amethyst comb in Viola Longstreet's
ash-blond hair, and gradually, by a course of sub-
conscious reasoning as she carefully played her cards,
she arrived at a conclusion which caused her color
to return and the bewildered expression to disappear.
When refreshments were served, the amiable young
lady said, kindly:

"You look quite yourself, now, dear Miss Carew,
but at one time while we were playing I was really
alarmed. You were very pale."

"I did not feel in the least ill," replied Jane
Carew. She smiled her Carew smile at the young
lady. Jane had settled it with herself that of course
Viola had borrowed that amethyst comb, appealing
to Margaret. Viola ought not to have done that;
she should have asked her, Miss Carew; and Jane
wondered, because Viola was very well bred; but
of course that was what had happened. Jane had
come down before Viola, leaving Margaret in her
room, and Viola had asked her. Jane did not then
remember that Viola had not even been told that
there was an amethyst comb in existence. She
remembered when Margaret, whose face was as
pale and bewildered as her own, mentioned it, when
she was brushing her hair.

"I saw it, first thing. Miss Jane," said Margaret.
"Louisa and I were on the landing, and I looked
down and saw your amethyst comb in Mrs. Long-
street's hair."

"She had asked you for it, because I had gone
down-stairs?" asked Jane, feebly.

"No, Miss Jane. I had not seen her. I went
out right after you did. Louisa had finished Mrs.
Longstreet, and she and I went down to the mail-
box to post a letter, and then we sat on the landing,
and -- I saw your comb."

"Have you," asked Jane, "looked in the jewel-
case?"

"Yes, Miss Jane."

"And it is not there?"

"It is not there. Miss Jane." Margaret spoke with
a sort of solemn intoning. She recognized what the
situation implied, and she, who fitted squarely and
entirely into her humble state, was aghast before
a hitherto unimagined occurrence. She could not,
even with the evidence of her senses against a lady
and her mistress's old friend, believe in them. Had
Jane told her firmly that she had not seen that
comb in that ash-blond hair she might have been
hypnotized into agreement. But Jane simply stared
at her, and the Carew dignity was more shaken than
she had ever seen it.

"Bring the jewel-case here, Margaret," ordered
Jane in a gasp.

Margaret brought the jewel-case, and everything
was taken out; all the compartments were opened,
but the amethyst comb was not there. Jane could
not sleep that night. At dawn she herself doubted
the evidence of her senses. The jewel-case was thor-
oughly overlooked again, and still Jane was incredu-
lous that she would ever see her comb in Viola's
hair again. But that evening, although there were
no guests except Harold Lind, who dined at the
house, Viola appeared in a pink-tinted gown, with a
knot of violets at her waist, and -- she wore the ame-
thyst comb. She said not one word concerning it;
nobody did. Harold Lind was in wild spirits. The
conviction grew upon Jane that the irresponsible,
beautiful youth was covertly amusing himself at her,
at Viola's, at everybody's expense. Perhaps he
included himself. He talked incessantly, not in
reality brilliantly, but with an effect of sparkling
effervescence which was fairly dazzling. Viola's
servants restrained with difficulty their laughter at
his sallies. Viola regarded Harold with ill-concealed
tenderness and admiration. She herself looked even
younger than usual, as if the innate youth in her
leaped to meet this charming comrade.

Jane felt sickened by it all. She could not under-
stand her friend. Not for one minute did she dream
that there could be any serious outcome of the
situation; that Viola, would marry this mad youth,
who, she knew, was making such covert fun at her
expense; but she was bewildered and indignant.
She wished that she had not come. That evening
when she went to her room she directed Margaret
to pack, as she intended to return home the next
day. Margaret began folding gowns with alacrity.
She was as conservative as her mistress and she
severely disapproved of many things. However, the
matter of the amethyst comb was uppermost in her
mind. She was wild with curiosity. She hardly
dared inquire, but finally she did.

"About the amethyst comb, ma'am?" she said,
with a delicate cough.

"What about it, Margaret?" returned Jane,
severely.

"I thought perhaps Mrs. Longstreet had told you
how she happened to have it."

Poor Jane Carew had nobody in whom to confide.
For once she spoke her mind to her maid. "She
has not said one word. And, oh, Margaret, I don't
know what to think of it."

Margaret pursed her lips.

"What do YOU think, Margaret?"

"I don't know. Miss Jane."

"I don't."

"I did not mention it to Louisa," said Margaret.

"Oh, I hope not!" cried Jane.

"But she did to me," said Margaret. "She asked
had I seen Miss Viola's new comb, and then she
laughed, and I thought from the way she acted
that --" Margaret hesitated.

"That what?"

"That she meant Mr. Lind had given Miss Viola
the comb."

Jane started violently. "Absolutely impossible!"
she cried. "That, of course, is nonsense. There
must be some explanation. Probably Mrs. Long-
street will explain before we go."

Mrs. Longstreet did not explain. She wondered
and expostulated when Jane announced her firm
determination to leave, but she seemed utterly at
a loss for the reason. She did not mention the comb.

When Jane Carew took leave of her old friend she
was entirely sure in her own mind that she would
never visit her again -- might never even see her
again.

Jane was unutterably thankful to be back in her
own peaceful home, over which no shadow of absurd
mystery brooded; only a calm afternoon light of
life, which disclosed gently but did not conceal or
betray. Jane settled back into her pleasant life,
and the days passed, and the weeks, and the months,
and the years. She heard nothing whatever from
or about Viola Longstreet for three years. Then, one
day, Margaret returned from the city, and she had
met Viola's old maid Louisa in a department store,
and she had news. Jane wished for strength to
refuse to listen, but she could not muster it. She
listened while Margaret brushed her hair.

"Louisa has not been with Miss Viola for a long
time," said Margaret. "She is living with some-
body else. Miss Viola lost her money, and had to
give up her house and her servants, and Louisa said
she cried when she said good-by."

Jane made an effort. "What became of --" she
began.

Margaret answered the unfinished sentence. She
was excited by gossip as by a stimulant. Her thin
cheeks burned, her eyes blazed. "Mr. Lind," said
Margaret, "Louisa told me, had turned out to be
real bad. He got into some money trouble, and
then" -- Margaret lowered her voice -- "he was ar-
rested for taking a lot of money which didn't belong
to him. Louisa said he had been in some business
where he handled a lot of other folks' money, and
he cheated the men who were in the business with
him, and he was tried, and Miss Viola, Louisa thinks,
hid away somewhere so they wouldn't call her to
testify, and then he had to go to prison; but --"
Margaret hesitated.

"What is it?" asked Jane.

"Louisa thinks he died about a year and a half
ago. She heard the lady where she lives now talking
about it. The lady used to know Miss Viola, and
she heard the lady say Mr. Lind had died in prison,
that he couldn't stand the hard life, and that Miss
Viola had lost all her money through him, and then"
-- Margaret hesitated again, and her mistress prodded
sharply -- "Louisa said that she heard the lady say
that she had thought Miss Viola would marry him,
but she hadn't, and she had more sense than she
had thought."

"Mrs. Longstreet would never for one moment
have entertained the thought of marrying Mr. Lind;
he was young enough to be her grandson," said
Jane, severely.

"Yes, ma'am," said Margaret.

It so happened that Jane went to New York
that day week, and at a jewelry counter in one of
the shops she discovered the amethyst comb. There
were on sale a number of bits of antique jewelry,
the precious flotsam and jetsam of old and wealthy
families which had drifted, nobody knew before
what currents of adversity, into that harbor of
sale for all the world to see. Jane made no inquiries;
the saleswoman volunteered simply the information
that the comb was a real antique, and the stones
were real amethysts and pearls, and the setting was
solid gold, and the price was thirty dollars; and
Jane bought it. She carried her old amethyst comb
home, but she did not show it to anybody. She
replaced it in its old compartment in her jewel-
case and thought of it with wonder, with a hint of
joy at regaining it, and with much sadness. She
was still fond of Viola Longstreet. Jane did not
easily part with her loves. She did not know where
Viola was. Margaret had inquired of Louisa, who
did not know. Poor Viola had probably drifted
into some obscure harbor of life wherein she was
hiding until life was over.

And then Jane met Viola one spring day on Fifth
Avenue.

"It is a very long time since I have seen you,"
said Jane with a reproachful accent, but her eyes
were tenderly inquiring.

"Yes," agreed Viola. Then she added, "I have
seen nobody. Do you know what a change has come
in my life?" she asked.

"Yes, dear," replied Jane, gently. "My Margaret
met Louisa once and she told her."

"Oh yes -- Louisa," said Viola. "I had to dis-
charge her. My money is about gone. I have only
just enough to keep the wolf from entering the door
of a hall bedroom in a respectable boarding-house.
However, I often hear him howl, but I do not mind
at all. In fact, the howling has become company
for me. I rather like it. It is queer what things one
can learn to like. There are a few left yet, like the
awful heat in summer, and the food, which I do not
fancy, but that is simply a matter of time."

Viola's laugh was like a bird's song -- a part of her
-- and nothing except death could silence it for long.

"Then," said Jane, "you stay in New York all
summer?"

Viola laughed again. "My dear," she replied,
"of course. It is all very simple. If I left New
York, and paid board anywhere, I would never have
enough money to buy my return fare, and certainly
not to keep that wolf from my hall-bedroom door."

"Then," said Jane, "you are going home with me."

"I cannot consent to accept charity, Jane," said
Viola. "Don't ask me."

Then, for the first time in her life, Viola Longstreet
saw Jane Carew's eyes blaze with anger. "You
dare to call it charity coming from me to you?"
she said, and Viola gave in.

When Jane saw the little room where Viola lived,
she marveled, with the exceedingly great marveling
of a woman to whom love of a man has never come,
at a woman who could give so much and with no
return.

Little enough to pack had Viola. Jane under-
stood with a shudder of horror that it was almost
destitution, not poverty, to which her old friend was
reduced.

"You shall have that northeast room which you
always liked," she told Viola when they were on
the train.

"The one with the old-fashioned peacock paper,
and the pine-tree growing close to one window?"
said Viola, happily.

Jane and Viola settled down to life together,
and Viola, despite the tragedy which she had known,
realized a peace and happiness beyond her imagina-
tion. In reality, although she still looked so youth-
ful, she was old enough to enjoy the pleasures of later
life. Enjoy 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 Har-
old 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 entertain-
ment 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 dis-
appearance 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 treasure because he had heard her
admire Jane's amethysts, and she, all unconscious
of any wrong-doing, had ever regarded it as the one
evidence of his thoughtful tenderness, it being the
one gift she had ever received from him; how she
parted with it, as she had parted with her other
jewels, in order to obtain money to purchase com-
forts for him while he was in prison -- Jane could
not have understood. The fact of an older woman
being fond of a young man, almost a boy, was be-
yond her mental grasp. She had no imagination
with which to comprehend that innocent, pathetic,
almost terrible love of one who has trodden the
earth long for one who has just set dancing feet
upon it. It was noble of Jane Carew that, lacking
all such imagination, she acted as she did: that, al-
though she did not, could not, formulate it to herself,
she would no more have deprived the other woman
and the dead man of that one little unscathed bond
of tender goodness than she would have robbed
his grave of flowers.

Viola looked at her. "I cannot tell you all about
it; you would laugh at me," she whispered; "but
this was mine once."

"It is yours now, dear," said Jane.

-THE END-
Mary E Wilkins Freeman's short story: The Amethyst Comb

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