"
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.
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