I struck one, and held it to the candle. Presently it caught, and I
glanced round the room. It was just as usual, just as the servants
had left it, and above the mantelpiece the eight-day clock ticked away
solemnly. While I looked at it it struck two, and in a dim fashion I was
thankful for its friendly sound.

Then I looked at the basket. It was of very fine white plaited work with
black bands running up it, and a chequered black-and-white handle. I
knew it well. I have never seen another like it. I bought it years
ago at Madeira, and gave it to my poor wife. Ultimately it was washed
overboard in a gale in the Irish Channel. I remember that it was full of
newspapers and library books, and I had to pay for them. Many and many
is the time that I have seen that identical basket standing there on
that very kitchen table, for my dear wife always used it to put flowers
in, and the shortest cut from that part of the garden where her roses
grew was through the kitchen. She used to gather the flowers, and then
come in and place her basket on the table, just where it stood now, and
order the dinner.

All this passed through my mind in a few seconds as I stood there with
the candle in my hand, feeling indeed half dead, and yet with my mind
painfully alive. I began to wonder if I had gone asleep, and was
the victim of a nightmare. No such thing. I wish it had only been a
nightmare. A mouse ran out along the dresser and jumped on to the floor,
making quite a crash in the silence.

What was in the basket? I feared to look, and yet some power within
me forced me to it. I drew near to the table and stood for a moment
listening to the sound of my own heart. Then I stretched out my hand and
slowly raised the lid of the basket.