"Aha! my lad!" he cried without appearing to regard the pain of the wound; "now I'll show you no quarter. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. I will not be sent away. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids.
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