Author Unknown
It was in a large and handsome green-house that two young people stood, admiring a magnificent plant, on the beauty of which the owner, Doctor Doran, was expatiating.
"But what is this?" the young lady said—"this odd, dingy little plant, in the shadow of those superb blossoms? Was it placed here by way of contrast, I wonder?"
The plant to which she alluded was of a dull green color, and floated in a saucer of water, on the surface of which it lay with stiff leaves, flatly diverging from the centre.
"That," said the doctor, "is more interesting than it looks. It was sent me from Palestine, where it is vulgarly known as the Rose of Sharon, though its botanical name is—"
Some one of a group at the other end of the green-house suddenly called to him, and he was compelled to hasten away, without having explained the properties of the "odd and dingy" little plant.
The two young people stood where he had left them, screened by a group of myrtles and roses—fit surroundings for lovers.
It was one of those delicious moments of seclusion and silent communion accidentally snatched from the society of others, which are so sweet and precious to the hearts of all lovers.
A deep look into each other's eyes, a pressure of the hand, a low, whispered word, and then the clasping fingers separated, and the girl's eyes were downcast as a step came near.
"Miss Carrie, I have availed myself of the good doctor's permission, and chosen for you the prettiest flowers that I could find. Will you have them? And will you wear them to-night?"
The elegant and rather confident-looking young man held out a superb camellia of vivid scarlet, flaming against its glossy, waxen leaves.
"Oh, how beautiful!" the girl exclaimed. "Too beautiful to droop and fade in the atmosphere of a ball-room."
"I thought you preferred white," her companion remarked, quietly, yet with apparently some chagrin.
"It was you who expressed a preference for white flowers," she answered, laughingly. "White is too insipid for my taste—I like rich colors. Yes, thank you, Mr. Farley, I will wear your flowers."
Farley stroked his delicate moustache to hide a smile of triumph and amusement. The other saw it, and turned haughtily away.
"His highness is evidently not pleased," remarked Farley, with a shrug.
"His highness is welcome to be otherwise," the girl answered, lightly. "What a superb color!" and she held up the camellia admiringly.
"May I venture to ask yet another favor? Will you give me the first waltz?"
"You know I don't waltz, now!"
"You did until recently," he said, significantly. Her color rose.
"Well, I may perhaps give you one waltz. I won't promise positively, though."
"Thank you; I will live on the hope until nine o'clock, when—"
"When you will take something more substantial—oysters and turkey-salad," she said, archly.
And with a graceful "Au revoir!" not quite devoid of an air of innocent coquetry, she turned again to her companion, who had been pretending interest in the Rose of Sharon.
He now met her bright glance with a grave countenance.
"Carrie, I am sorry that you promised to wear those flowers. You must have known I had promised myself the pleasure of choosing some for you. And I doubly regret that you should have consented to waltz with Farley. Excuse me, but under the circumstances I did not expect it of you."
"I may be allowed to judge of the propriety of my own actions," she returned, with assumed dignity.
"To be engaged to one man, and to wear the flowers presented by another—"
"The engagement is not known except to ourselves," she interrupted. "And I really do not see, Mr. Rutherford, that you have a right to demand that your wishes should be my law."
"Carrie!"
He would have taken her hand, but she turned away abruptly.
In the motion, the saucer containing the plant which the doctor had called the Rose of Sharon fell to the ground and was shattered.
"There! see the mischief you have done!" he said, stepping back.
"It is you who are doing the mischief. You are crushing the plant beneath your foot."
He picked it up, and stood holding it in his hand. Neither of them spoke a word. Both felt vexed and wounded, and the heart of each accused the other of unkindness.
"You are killing that poor plant," said Caroline, at length, a little sharply. "See how its leaves are fading and curling up!"
True, the unfortunate plant was assuming a dull, brownish hue, and its leaves were already withering and crumpling into a dead looking ball. They observed it curiously.
"How quickly it has withered! and for want of water, of which you have deprived it."
"It is because you crushed it."
Light words, and yet something in the look and tone of each which sent a chill and blight to the heart of the other.
"I will get fresh water," said Rutherford.
"It is useless; it is past resuscitating," said Caroline, with something hard in her tone."
"Then let it die!" he returned, recklessly; and he tossed the little brown ball upon the shelf. "A thing which will die so quickly is not worth having "
Irate words, thoughtless words, on the part of both, the result of a moment's vexation, and yet to be repented of and mourned over, in sorrow and bitterness, for many a long year after.
They met, that evening, at the party, with a certain coldness and restraint on the part of both. Each waited for some sign of yielding from the other. Each was too proud to make it.
Caroline thought that her lover had been unreasonably jealous and exacting, and that it was, in any case, the part of the man, and not of the woman, to make advances to a reconciliation.
Rutherford, as he saw the scarlet camellia glowing in the dark tresses of his betrothed, considered himself aggrieved; and this feeling was aggravated by observing the assiduity of his former rival, Farley, who, encouraged by the apparent estrangement of the lovers, was renewing attentions which had been recently discontinued from a perception of their hopelessness.
Caroline smiled, chatted, flirted, and made herself generally charming, and no one, not even Rutherford, suspected the troubled heart beneath.
Despite his great love for her he felt disappointed in witnessing her conduct, so different from herself in general, and this feeling amounted to positive displeasure on beholding her in Farley's arms, whirling in the voluptuous mazes of a waltz.
She knew he detested waltzing, and that he especially objected to her waltzing with Farley.
He turned from the sight, with a feeling nearly approaching disgust, and devoted himself to a modest, pretty young girl, a stranger in the place.
Later in the evening he approached Caroline, and addressed her, but coldly. She replied haughtily, and, turning to Farley, complained of the heat, and the two passed out upon the piazza. In displeasure, Rutherford did not again approach her.
He did not call on her the following day. When he did call, she excused herself from seeing him, and that evening he met her promenading with Farley. It was enough. The brief dream of happiness of these two foolish young lovers was over. Rutherford went to join a brother of his in the Far West, and Caroline made herself the reigning belle that winter.
Ten years passed.
Time had brought the usual changes to the town of C—. Children had grown up to be young people, and most of the former young people had married.
The name of Allan Rutherford was almost forgotten, except by a few who had best known to him, for since his departure he had scarcely been heard from. He had no relatives in C—, and though he possessed property there, it had been left in the hands of agents.
One chilly October evening, the windows of Doctor Doran's parlor were brightly lighted, within, the large, pleasant room was glowing with warmth and comfort. The old doctor and his good wife were holding one of their little, informal, social gatherings, known in the village as "teas." The old couple were cheery and kindly, and knew how to make things pleasant for all sorts of guests, and consequently their "teas" were popular with even the young people and children.
The present, however, was no young people's party. One or two married couples, an old bachelor or two, an elderly maiden-lady, and one much younger, but still past the bloom of youth—these, with the doctor's school-girl niece, constituted the company.
The younger of the two young ladies was Caroline Dunn, who, ten years previous, had been the betrothed of Allan Rutherford.
Everybody wondered why she had never married; and, in truth, she herself sometimes shared in the wonder. Offers she had had, and still had; but, though she intended to marry, somehow she had never done so.
She said to her intimate friends that she could never love any man sufficiently to marry him. And now, in her thirtieth year, she began to feel indifferent upon the subject, and had almost come to the conclusion that her destiny was to be an old maid.
She presented a very pleasing and attractive picture, despite her thirty years, as she sat there on the low ottoman, teaching old Mrs. Doran the intricacies of a new crochet stitch, a dress of soft gray silk, fitting perfectly to her fine figure, with a simple garniture of delicate-lace and rose-coloured ribbon; soft, brown hair swept back from a smooth, fair brow, a smile on her lip, a pleasant light in her brown eyes.
No wonder that the minister's wife, looking at her, whispered to the professor's lady that, in her opinion, Caroline Dunn was handsomer and more attractive now than when she had been a girl.
"I have a pleasant surprise for some of you," said the doctor, rubbing his hands and looking around the cheery circle—"the meeting with an old friend. You, Dr. Dives and Mr. Dixon, remember our promising young law-graduate, Allan Rutherford?"
Caroline Dunn lifted startled eyes, and a warm color rushed over face and neck. She looked down again upon her work, but her fingers trembled, and she dropped stitch after stitch, knitting on without noticing them.
"He arrived late this evening," the doctor resumed. "Has come to see about his property, which is sadly mismanaged. I met him just now by chance, and he promised to join us at tea. Ah, there he is!" as a ring at the door-bell announced another visitor.
The parlor door opened, and a tall, handsome man, bronzed and bearded, entered. There were cheery greetings and introductions, and Caroline, as in a dream, heard her name spoken, and met the clear, calm gaze of eyes which had not looked into hers for ten long years—the same eyes, the same look, which she remembered as she had last seen them on that wretched evening when, with Farley by her side, they had passed each other coldly on the street.
How vividly it now came back to her in that instant's greeting! The ten years vanished away as if by magic; the resentment, the pride, the pain, came back to her heart with a sudden pang which surprised herself, and she met his formal greeting more coldly than she would have done that of an entire stranger.
She listened as he talked, and thought how much improved he was—how much more dignified and manly he had grown.
She heard him reply, to the old doctor's jocular inquiry, that he had never married; that he had been too busy to think of marrying.
And then Mrs. Doran would have Miss Dunn put aside her crocheting, and play them something; and Mr. Rutherford sat and listened, and occasionally let his eyes rest quietly on the graceful figure and fair womanly face at the piano.
At supper, one or two little acts of polite attention, and a few words of formal civility, passed between them; and this was all. Who would ever have dreamed that these two had once been betrothed lovers?
The old doctor's hobbies were botany and floriculture. In summer his garden, in winter his greenhouse, was the pride of his heart. He had now a rare cactus just bursting into bloom, and of course, his guests must be treated to a sight of it. So together, during the evening, they all repaired to the green-house.
The wonderful cactus duly admired, the host led them up and down the fragrant alleys, pointing out here and there something particularly rare or beautiful, and chatting meanwhile in his genial, pleasant way.
"A strange thing happened a few days since," he said, as with a sudden recollection. "I had those upper shelves taken down to be replaced by new, and as the workman was busied in removing them there fell to my feet, from a crevice, a plant which had been missing for some years. It is the Vive Sempiternis, or Rose of Sharon, a plant which apparently dies when derived of water, but revives when supplied with it. See, here it is!" and the doctor held up a little rough, dry, brown ball, of apparently dead leaves, to the gaze of his guests. "Observe," he said, "it is perfectly dry, crisp and brittle, with no tinge of green on its leaves. You would none of you believe that a particle of life remained in these dry roots and shrunken leaves. It is like a heart in which some dear memory or precious love has apparently died out long ago, under the blight of adverse circumstances, but which nevertheless remains hidden there, in its innermost core, unseen and unsuspected, yet ready to bloom afresh at the first touch of the reviving waters. See, my friends! you shall witness this wonder with your own eyes."
The doctor lightly dropped the brown ball into a bowl of water.
For an instant it trembled on the surface, its dry, thread-like roots seeming scarcely to touch the water. Then it lay still, and the ashen roots took a brown hue, and slowly reached downward into the reviving element. The crisp, dry leaves gradually uncurled, and revealed a tinge of green at the heart of the plant.
Soon the whole radius of leaves lay spread out, star-shaped, on the water, reaching over the edge of the bowl, glowing with a vivid, living green, as it thirstily drank in the element which was its life.
An exclamation of wonder and admiration ran around the gazing circle. Two only of its number remained silent. One only dared not lift his eyes, because she felt that another pair of eyes were fixed upon her. And yet she would have given worlds to have known what was the expression of those eyes.
"But what is this?" the young lady said—"this odd, dingy little plant, in the shadow of those superb blossoms? Was it placed here by way of contrast, I wonder?"
The plant to which she alluded was of a dull green color, and floated in a saucer of water, on the surface of which it lay with stiff leaves, flatly diverging from the centre.
"That," said the doctor, "is more interesting than it looks. It was sent me from Palestine, where it is vulgarly known as the Rose of Sharon, though its botanical name is—"
Some one of a group at the other end of the green-house suddenly called to him, and he was compelled to hasten away, without having explained the properties of the "odd and dingy" little plant.
The two young people stood where he had left them, screened by a group of myrtles and roses—fit surroundings for lovers.
It was one of those delicious moments of seclusion and silent communion accidentally snatched from the society of others, which are so sweet and precious to the hearts of all lovers.
A deep look into each other's eyes, a pressure of the hand, a low, whispered word, and then the clasping fingers separated, and the girl's eyes were downcast as a step came near.
"Miss Carrie, I have availed myself of the good doctor's permission, and chosen for you the prettiest flowers that I could find. Will you have them? And will you wear them to-night?"
The elegant and rather confident-looking young man held out a superb camellia of vivid scarlet, flaming against its glossy, waxen leaves.
"Oh, how beautiful!" the girl exclaimed. "Too beautiful to droop and fade in the atmosphere of a ball-room."
"I thought you preferred white," her companion remarked, quietly, yet with apparently some chagrin.
"It was you who expressed a preference for white flowers," she answered, laughingly. "White is too insipid for my taste—I like rich colors. Yes, thank you, Mr. Farley, I will wear your flowers."
Farley stroked his delicate moustache to hide a smile of triumph and amusement. The other saw it, and turned haughtily away.
"His highness is evidently not pleased," remarked Farley, with a shrug.
"His highness is welcome to be otherwise," the girl answered, lightly. "What a superb color!" and she held up the camellia admiringly.
"May I venture to ask yet another favor? Will you give me the first waltz?"
"You know I don't waltz, now!"
"You did until recently," he said, significantly. Her color rose.
"Well, I may perhaps give you one waltz. I won't promise positively, though."
"Thank you; I will live on the hope until nine o'clock, when—"
"When you will take something more substantial—oysters and turkey-salad," she said, archly.
And with a graceful "Au revoir!" not quite devoid of an air of innocent coquetry, she turned again to her companion, who had been pretending interest in the Rose of Sharon.
He now met her bright glance with a grave countenance.
"Carrie, I am sorry that you promised to wear those flowers. You must have known I had promised myself the pleasure of choosing some for you. And I doubly regret that you should have consented to waltz with Farley. Excuse me, but under the circumstances I did not expect it of you."
"I may be allowed to judge of the propriety of my own actions," she returned, with assumed dignity.
"To be engaged to one man, and to wear the flowers presented by another—"
"The engagement is not known except to ourselves," she interrupted. "And I really do not see, Mr. Rutherford, that you have a right to demand that your wishes should be my law."
"Carrie!"
He would have taken her hand, but she turned away abruptly.
In the motion, the saucer containing the plant which the doctor had called the Rose of Sharon fell to the ground and was shattered.
"There! see the mischief you have done!" he said, stepping back.
"It is you who are doing the mischief. You are crushing the plant beneath your foot."
He picked it up, and stood holding it in his hand. Neither of them spoke a word. Both felt vexed and wounded, and the heart of each accused the other of unkindness.
"You are killing that poor plant," said Caroline, at length, a little sharply. "See how its leaves are fading and curling up!"
True, the unfortunate plant was assuming a dull, brownish hue, and its leaves were already withering and crumpling into a dead looking ball. They observed it curiously.
"How quickly it has withered! and for want of water, of which you have deprived it."
"It is because you crushed it."
Light words, and yet something in the look and tone of each which sent a chill and blight to the heart of the other.
"I will get fresh water," said Rutherford.
"It is useless; it is past resuscitating," said Caroline, with something hard in her tone."
"Then let it die!" he returned, recklessly; and he tossed the little brown ball upon the shelf. "A thing which will die so quickly is not worth having "
Irate words, thoughtless words, on the part of both, the result of a moment's vexation, and yet to be repented of and mourned over, in sorrow and bitterness, for many a long year after.
They met, that evening, at the party, with a certain coldness and restraint on the part of both. Each waited for some sign of yielding from the other. Each was too proud to make it.
Caroline thought that her lover had been unreasonably jealous and exacting, and that it was, in any case, the part of the man, and not of the woman, to make advances to a reconciliation.
Rutherford, as he saw the scarlet camellia glowing in the dark tresses of his betrothed, considered himself aggrieved; and this feeling was aggravated by observing the assiduity of his former rival, Farley, who, encouraged by the apparent estrangement of the lovers, was renewing attentions which had been recently discontinued from a perception of their hopelessness.
Caroline smiled, chatted, flirted, and made herself generally charming, and no one, not even Rutherford, suspected the troubled heart beneath.
Despite his great love for her he felt disappointed in witnessing her conduct, so different from herself in general, and this feeling amounted to positive displeasure on beholding her in Farley's arms, whirling in the voluptuous mazes of a waltz.
She knew he detested waltzing, and that he especially objected to her waltzing with Farley.
He turned from the sight, with a feeling nearly approaching disgust, and devoted himself to a modest, pretty young girl, a stranger in the place.
Later in the evening he approached Caroline, and addressed her, but coldly. She replied haughtily, and, turning to Farley, complained of the heat, and the two passed out upon the piazza. In displeasure, Rutherford did not again approach her.
He did not call on her the following day. When he did call, she excused herself from seeing him, and that evening he met her promenading with Farley. It was enough. The brief dream of happiness of these two foolish young lovers was over. Rutherford went to join a brother of his in the Far West, and Caroline made herself the reigning belle that winter.
* * *
Ten years passed.
Time had brought the usual changes to the town of C—. Children had grown up to be young people, and most of the former young people had married.
The name of Allan Rutherford was almost forgotten, except by a few who had best known to him, for since his departure he had scarcely been heard from. He had no relatives in C—, and though he possessed property there, it had been left in the hands of agents.
One chilly October evening, the windows of Doctor Doran's parlor were brightly lighted, within, the large, pleasant room was glowing with warmth and comfort. The old doctor and his good wife were holding one of their little, informal, social gatherings, known in the village as "teas." The old couple were cheery and kindly, and knew how to make things pleasant for all sorts of guests, and consequently their "teas" were popular with even the young people and children.
The present, however, was no young people's party. One or two married couples, an old bachelor or two, an elderly maiden-lady, and one much younger, but still past the bloom of youth—these, with the doctor's school-girl niece, constituted the company.
The younger of the two young ladies was Caroline Dunn, who, ten years previous, had been the betrothed of Allan Rutherford.
Everybody wondered why she had never married; and, in truth, she herself sometimes shared in the wonder. Offers she had had, and still had; but, though she intended to marry, somehow she had never done so.
She said to her intimate friends that she could never love any man sufficiently to marry him. And now, in her thirtieth year, she began to feel indifferent upon the subject, and had almost come to the conclusion that her destiny was to be an old maid.
She presented a very pleasing and attractive picture, despite her thirty years, as she sat there on the low ottoman, teaching old Mrs. Doran the intricacies of a new crochet stitch, a dress of soft gray silk, fitting perfectly to her fine figure, with a simple garniture of delicate-lace and rose-coloured ribbon; soft, brown hair swept back from a smooth, fair brow, a smile on her lip, a pleasant light in her brown eyes.
No wonder that the minister's wife, looking at her, whispered to the professor's lady that, in her opinion, Caroline Dunn was handsomer and more attractive now than when she had been a girl.
"I have a pleasant surprise for some of you," said the doctor, rubbing his hands and looking around the cheery circle—"the meeting with an old friend. You, Dr. Dives and Mr. Dixon, remember our promising young law-graduate, Allan Rutherford?"
Caroline Dunn lifted startled eyes, and a warm color rushed over face and neck. She looked down again upon her work, but her fingers trembled, and she dropped stitch after stitch, knitting on without noticing them.
"He arrived late this evening," the doctor resumed. "Has come to see about his property, which is sadly mismanaged. I met him just now by chance, and he promised to join us at tea. Ah, there he is!" as a ring at the door-bell announced another visitor.
The parlor door opened, and a tall, handsome man, bronzed and bearded, entered. There were cheery greetings and introductions, and Caroline, as in a dream, heard her name spoken, and met the clear, calm gaze of eyes which had not looked into hers for ten long years—the same eyes, the same look, which she remembered as she had last seen them on that wretched evening when, with Farley by her side, they had passed each other coldly on the street.
How vividly it now came back to her in that instant's greeting! The ten years vanished away as if by magic; the resentment, the pride, the pain, came back to her heart with a sudden pang which surprised herself, and she met his formal greeting more coldly than she would have done that of an entire stranger.
She listened as he talked, and thought how much improved he was—how much more dignified and manly he had grown.
She heard him reply, to the old doctor's jocular inquiry, that he had never married; that he had been too busy to think of marrying.
And then Mrs. Doran would have Miss Dunn put aside her crocheting, and play them something; and Mr. Rutherford sat and listened, and occasionally let his eyes rest quietly on the graceful figure and fair womanly face at the piano.
At supper, one or two little acts of polite attention, and a few words of formal civility, passed between them; and this was all. Who would ever have dreamed that these two had once been betrothed lovers?
The old doctor's hobbies were botany and floriculture. In summer his garden, in winter his greenhouse, was the pride of his heart. He had now a rare cactus just bursting into bloom, and of course, his guests must be treated to a sight of it. So together, during the evening, they all repaired to the green-house.
The wonderful cactus duly admired, the host led them up and down the fragrant alleys, pointing out here and there something particularly rare or beautiful, and chatting meanwhile in his genial, pleasant way.
"A strange thing happened a few days since," he said, as with a sudden recollection. "I had those upper shelves taken down to be replaced by new, and as the workman was busied in removing them there fell to my feet, from a crevice, a plant which had been missing for some years. It is the Vive Sempiternis, or Rose of Sharon, a plant which apparently dies when derived of water, but revives when supplied with it. See, here it is!" and the doctor held up a little rough, dry, brown ball, of apparently dead leaves, to the gaze of his guests. "Observe," he said, "it is perfectly dry, crisp and brittle, with no tinge of green on its leaves. You would none of you believe that a particle of life remained in these dry roots and shrunken leaves. It is like a heart in which some dear memory or precious love has apparently died out long ago, under the blight of adverse circumstances, but which nevertheless remains hidden there, in its innermost core, unseen and unsuspected, yet ready to bloom afresh at the first touch of the reviving waters. See, my friends! you shall witness this wonder with your own eyes."
The doctor lightly dropped the brown ball into a bowl of water.
For an instant it trembled on the surface, its dry, thread-like roots seeming scarcely to touch the water. Then it lay still, and the ashen roots took a brown hue, and slowly reached downward into the reviving element. The crisp, dry leaves gradually uncurled, and revealed a tinge of green at the heart of the plant.
Soon the whole radius of leaves lay spread out, star-shaped, on the water, reaching over the edge of the bowl, glowing with a vivid, living green, as it thirstily drank in the element which was its life.
An exclamation of wonder and admiration ran around the gazing circle. Two only of its number remained silent. One only dared not lift his eyes, because she felt that another pair of eyes were fixed upon her. And yet she would have given worlds to have known what was the expression of those eyes.
"Ah, my friends," said the doctor, "it is as I said—the old memory, the old love, never dies. We may go through life with hearts that appear shrivelled and dead, but at their core, hidden and buried in the dry leaves, the old love is dying yet. It needs but a touch to revive it into beauty and bloom, like my precious Rose of Sharon here."
Caroline Dunn slowly raised her eyes. They met those that had all this time been fixed upon her. What their look told we cannot describe; but, as the company moved again down the blossoming green-house alley, these two were the last, walking side by side, silent, yet hearts that beat as neither had beaten for ten years past.
They paused once, only for an instant, as Doctor Doran said:
"It was just here that my Rose of Sharon slept for ten years, to spring into bloom again at the touch of the water for which it thirsted."
And the look which passed between them then, and the instinctive, involuntary meeting of two hands, were such as that same spot witnessed years before. That time was annihilated, the two were young again; and yet, like the Rose.of Sharon, how long had their hearts been dried up and thirsting, with the yet living love at their cores!
It is to this day a question with Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford—did the old doctor know or suspect more than he had appeared to? Had he been an unknown witness to that long-passed, unhappy scene in the green-house?
Caroline Dunn slowly raised her eyes. They met those that had all this time been fixed upon her. What their look told we cannot describe; but, as the company moved again down the blossoming green-house alley, these two were the last, walking side by side, silent, yet hearts that beat as neither had beaten for ten years past.
They paused once, only for an instant, as Doctor Doran said:
"It was just here that my Rose of Sharon slept for ten years, to spring into bloom again at the touch of the water for which it thirsted."
And the look which passed between them then, and the instinctive, involuntary meeting of two hands, were such as that same spot witnessed years before. That time was annihilated, the two were young again; and yet, like the Rose.of Sharon, how long had their hearts been dried up and thirsting, with the yet living love at their cores!
It is to this day a question with Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford—did the old doctor know or suspect more than he had appeared to? Had he been an unknown witness to that long-passed, unhappy scene in the green-house?
Warragul Guardian and Buln Buln and Narracan Shire Advocate, Thursday 9 December 1880, supplement page 2
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