"Nothing. I cannot understand them. She was accusing herself, I suppose, of something--I know not what. What did she keep up? Whom did she persuade? But why should we want to know?" "Wandering words. Nurses will tell you that no importance can be attached to the last words when the brain wanders. Well, Humphrey, while you were at the funeral I unlocked her drawers and examined the contents. I found that she had quite a large sum of money invested. One is not in good service for all these years without saving something. There is a little pile of photographs of yourself at various ages. I have put them aside for you, if you like to have them." "I don't want them," he replied carelessly. "I shall keep them, then. There is her wardrobe also. I believe she had nephews and nieces and cousins in her native village in India. All her possessions shall be sent out to them. Meanwhile, there is a little packet of things which she tied up a great many years ago, and has kept ever since. The sight of them caused me a strange shock. I thought they had been long destroyed. They revived my memories of a day--an event--certain days--when you were an infant." "What things are these, then?" "They were your own things--some of the things which you wore when you were a child in arms, not more than a few months old." "Oh, they are not very interesting, are they?" "Perhaps not." Lady Woodroffe had in her lap a small packet tied up in a towel or a serviette. She placed it on the table. "Humphrey, I always think, when I look at old things, of the stories they might tell, if they could, of the histories and the changes which might have happened." "Well, I don't know, mother. I am very well contented with things as they are, though they might have given my father a peerage. As for thinking of what they might have been, why, I might, perhaps, have been born in a gutter." "You might, Humphrey"--the widow laughed, which was an unwonted thing in her--"you certainly might. And you cannot imagine what you would be now, had you been born in a gutter." "What's the good of asking, then?" "Look at this bundle of your things." "I don't want to look at them." "No, I dare say not. But I do. They tell a story to me which they cannot tell to you. I am glad the old woman kept them." Lady Woodroffe untied the parcel, and laid open the things. "The story is so curious that I cannot help looking at the things. I have opened the bundle a dozen times to-day, since I found it. I believe I shall have to tell you that story some day, Humphrey, whether I like it or not." "What story can there be connected with a parcel of socks and shoes?" "To you, at present, none. To me, a most eventful story. The old nurse knew the story very well, but she never talked about it. See, Humphrey, the things are of quite coarse materials--one would think they were made for that gutter child we talked about." Her son stooped and picked up a paper that had fallen on the floor.