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Well, I will tell you all that I have seen. When I came to Father's ancestral tomb, I saw that streams of milk had recently flowed from the top of the mound  and that his sepulchre was encircled with garlands of all flowers that grow. I was astonished at the sight, and peered about lest somehow someone should approach close to me. But when I perceived that all the place was in stillness,  I crept nearer to the tomb, and on the mound's edge I saw a lock of hair, freshly severed. And the very moment I see it—ah me!—a familiar image rushes into my mind, and I feel that I am looking at a token of him whom I most love, Orestes.  Then I lift it in my hands and make no sound of bad omen, but the tears of joy straightaway fill my eyes. Even now I know well, just as I knew then, that this fair tribute has come from no one but him. Whom else does that tomb concern, save me and you?  And I did not make those offerings, I know, nor did you. How could you, when you cannot leave this house even to worship the gods without later regretting it? Nor, again, does our mother's heart incline to do such deeds, nor could she have done so without our knowledge.  No, these offerings are from Orestes! Come, dear sister, have courage! Not always does the same fortune, it is true, attend the same individuals. Ours was once to be despised, but today, perhaps, will seal the promise of much good.
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