"But what is it, my dear?" she asked, lifting the well-stuffed bag.
"They're Mr. Ramsay's papers and things, that have been sent home from the office—papers, and letters, and all sorts—for you see, he was ill such a long time, that often when he went to his office he could not do anything, and these have been turned out of his private drawer; and so, of course—"
"Why, my boy, what have you got there?"
"But what are you going to do with them?" interrupted his mother, in the same surprised tone.
"I have brought them for you to look over," replied her son.
"Herbert! What do you mean?"
"Why, mother, you told me to ask if there was anything you could do for Mrs. Ramsay, and while I was speaking this bag was brought, with a letter, saying they were the papers found in Mr. Ramsay's private drawer. You see, he has been dead a fortnight now, so I daresay they want the room."
"I expect they do; but what am I to do with them?" said Mrs. Milner. "Really, Herbert—"
"I am coming to that directly. When poor Mrs. Ramsay saw the bag, she just sat down and cried. She is a poor thing, mother."