"Newman!" she said in a low voice of joy, and she half rose and stretched forth her arms.
That hated name! Denial was on his lips, but the voice of joy, the agonized appeal of love expressed in her eyes, arrested his speech. And indeed at that moment there suddenly flashed upon his mind some glimmering of the truth.
"Who speaks?" he asked, awed and stricken by the appeal.
"Your mother, your fond, your loving mother. Oh, my son, don't break my heart by saying you don't know me! Newman, Newman, my beloved boy, kiss me, give me one word of love. I shall die, I shall die, if you turn from me!"
He could not repulse her; he felt that the sentence upon this loving heart was his to pronounce. Scarcely knowing what he did, he held out his hands. She seized and kissed them again and again, then fell upon his neck and pressed him convulsively to her.
"Who are you?" he said softly.
"Your mother, your faithful, faithful mother. Did you not hear me? Have I spoken too soon? O Newman, Newman, give me one kiss, one kind look. My poor heart is breaking!"
"Tell me who I am," said Basil.
"You are our dear, our darling son, whom God in His infinite mercy has sent back to us, to comfort us, to cheer the little time that remains to us."
Her mouth was close to his; her quivering lips pleaded for the kiss for which she yearned. He could not resist her; their lips met; her tears gushed forth.