"I know it, Dumps," she said again. "And--and I returned those clothes that you gave me when I was at Hedgerow House." "You did. Why did you do it?" "If, perhaps," I said slowly--"I don't know, but perhaps if you had told me the truth then, that you were not being so awfully kind just because I was a lonely little girl, but because you were going to marry my father, I might have stood it better, and I might have acted differently; but you deceived me. I thought you were a very kind, middle-aged, rather fat lady, and I liked you just awfully; but when you deceived me--" "Don't say any more," she remarked hastily. "It was not my wish--I felt all along that--" But then, with a great effort, she resumed her usual manner. "I see I have not won you yet," she said. "But we must go on being friends outwardly, and _perhaps_--you have been confirmed, have you not?" "Yes," I said, somewhat startled. "Then perhaps when we kneel together at the Great Festival, the feast of all feasts, your heart may be softened, and you may see that in all the world no one means more kindly to you than the one whom you used to know as Grace Donnithorne." "Oh, if you wouldn't be quite so amiable I think I could love you better," I said, and then I really hated myself. "It will come, dear," she said in a patient tone. "And now, just tell me what you bought. If your father isn't interested in brown-paper parcels, I am." "They're presents," I said shortly. "Those delightful things on the sofa are presents? You have spent a little of your money on presents? Rather extravagant of you, but I'm not going to scold." "That sounded such a lot of money," I said, "but it didn't turn out so much." "What do you mean, dear? It is a very substantial sum for a young schoolgirl of your age. I am sorry you did not take me with you to spend it; but you seemed so anxious to go alone, and I thought until Christmas was over--" "What is going to happen when Christmas is over?" I said. "I will tell you when the time comes." "But please tell me now, step-mother--" "I wish you wouldn't call me by that name." "Well, I can't call you Mrs Grant; and you are my step-mother, you know." "It doesn't matter--call me anything you like, dear." I wished she was not quite so accommodating; but while I looked at her I saw there was a change in her face: there was a purpose in it, a firmness, a sort of upper-hand look as though she did not mean that I, Dumps, should have my own way about everything. She asked me what I had bought for myself, and I said nothing particular, except a few ribbons and things like that. "They ought to be bought last of all," she said, "but of course you don't quite understand this time." "Oh!" I said.