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 jewelcase 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 discharge 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.