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d. Could it be his mother—his mother whom he believed dead—or was it only a wonderful resemblance? "Mother!" he exclaimed, almost involuntarily. At that word Mrs. Conrad turned her eyes upon him. She, too, was amazed, and something of awe crept over her as she looked upon one whom she

Florette f

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thought a tenant of the tomb. "Oliver!" she said wistfully, and in an instant he was folded in her arms. "Then it is you, mother, and you are not dead!" exclaimed Oliver joyfully, kissing her. "Did you think me dead, then? Mr. Kenyon wrote me that you were dead." "Mr. Kenyon is a scoundrel, mother; but I can forgive him—I can forgive everybody, since you are alive." "God is indeed good to me. I will never murmur again," ejaculated Mrs. Conrad, with heartfelt gratitude. "But, mother, I don't understand. How came you here—in Chicago?" "Come home with me, Oliver,

and you shall hear. My little Florette