very little, laughing never, but often smiling,--a curious smile that
curved one corner of her lip and drew down the tip of one eye. She had
been married, but no one knew anything about her husband. She was a
member of the church, attended with most scrupulous regularity,
assisted generously in a financial way, was on good terms with every
one, and had not one friend in the congregation. The women were afraid
of her. So were the men. But for different reasons.

Those who would ask questions of her, ran directly against the concrete
wall of the crooked smile, and turned away abashed, unsatisfied.

Carol was very shy with her. She was not used to the type. There had
been women in her father's churches, but they had been of different
kinds. Mrs. Waldemar's straight-staring eyes embarrassed her. She
listened silently when the other women talked of her, half admiringly,
half sneeringly, and she grew more timid. She watched her fascinated
in church, on the street, whenever they were thrown together. But one
deep look from the dark eyes set her a-flush and rendered her
tongue-tied.

Mrs. Waldemar had paid scant attention to David before the advent of
Carol, except to follow his movements with her eyes in a way of which
he could not remain unconscious. But when Carol came, entered the
demon of mischief. Carol was young, Mrs. Waldemar was forty. Carol
was lovely, Mrs. Waldemar was only unusual. Carol was frank as the
sunshine, Mrs. Waldemar was mysterious. What woman on earth but might
wonder if the devoted groom were immune to luring eyes, and if that
lovely bride were jealous?

So she talked to him after church. She called him on the telephone for