"Kiss her," she said. "When you last saw her she was a baby. If she were living, and saw your face, she would look upon you as a stranger; but now she knows the truth."
Then Basil understood. "Yes," he said inly, "now she knows the truth."
He stooped and kissed the child's lips, and the mother's tears broke out afresh; checking them presently, she said:
"It was by the strangest chance I met you last night. I have done what I conceived to be my duty. Now go," and she pointed to the door.
"I will obey you," said Basil, "but I must say a word to you first, in the next room."
She looked at him for a moment hesitatingly, then nodded her head, and they left the chamber of death as noiselessly as they had entered it.
"I did not intend it," said the woman, and taking a tress of fair hair from her bosom, and dividing it, she offered him a portion. "You may like to keep it as a remembrance."
"I thank you humbly," said Basil; "it may help me on my way."
A look of incredulous wonder flashed into her face, but remained there only an instant, and she shook her head as though she were answering a question she had asked mutely of herself.
"Before us lies an open grave," she said. "You and I speak now together for the last time on earth. I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. You have something to say to me?"