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 ham, peeping in between the curtains of her room.

"Nothing at all. I don't understand it."

"Didn't get angry? didn't make any demur to your statements concerning 'dear mamma's' jewels?"

"She didn't seem really surprised, either, now that I come to think of it. I can 't make it out." Victoria sighed, wearily. "I wish I knew what she has up her sleeve—for she has something."

"Do you suppose," Mrs. Durham ventured, shrewdly, "that he has told her himself—oh, not the real thing, but some explanation?"

Victoria shook her head. "Hardly; it is too grave. It wouldn't do for him to block me by fighting fire with a fire sure to burn him just as badly."

"What then?"

"That's just it; I don't see any explanation. Oh, it's probably only imagination. She was quiet about it for the reason that she wasn't sufficiently interested. You know how one always attributes a deeper motive than the apparent one because the obvious appears too simple." 169