The children met his astonished stare with an equal wonder and, he fancied, some little fright.  The boy’s lips trembled a little as he said apologetically—­

“I told Jinny not to sing.  But she didn’t make much noise.”

“Mamma said I could play with my dolly.  But I fordot and singed,” said the little girl penitently.

“Where’s your mamma?” asked the young man.  The fancy of their being near relatives of the night watchman had vanished at the sound of their voices.

“Dorn out,” said the girl.

“When did she go out?”

“Last night.”

“Were you all alone here last night?”

“Yes!”

Perhaps they saw the look of indignation and pity in the editor’s face, for the boy said quickly—­

“She don’t go out every night; last night she went to”—­

He stopped suddenly, and both children looked at each other with a half laugh and half cry, and then repeated in hopeless unison, “She’s dorn out.”

“When is she coming back again?”

“To-night.  But we won’t make any more noise.”

“Who brings you your food?” continued the editor, looking at the tray.

“Woberts.”

Evidently Roberts, the night watchman!  The editor felt relieved; here was a clue to some explanation.  He instantly sat down on the floor between them.

“So that was the dolly that slept in my bed,” he said gayly, taking it up.

God gives helplessness a wonderful intuition of its friends.  The children looked up at the face of their grown-up companion, giggled, and then burst into a shrill fit of laughter.  He felt that it was the first one they had really indulged in for many days.  Nevertheless he said, “Hush!” confidentially; why he scarcely knew, except to intimate to them that he had taken in their situation thoroughly.  “Make no noise,” he added softly, “and come into my big room.”

They hung back, however, with frightened yet longing eyes.  “Mamma said we mussent do out of this room,” said the girl.

“Not alone,” responded the editor quickly, “but with me, you know; that’s different.”

The logic sufficed them, poor as it was.  Their hands slid quite naturally into his.  But at the door he stopped, and motioning to the locked door of the other room, asked:—­

“And is that mamma’s room, too?”

Their little hands slipped from his and they were silent.  Presently the boy, as if acted upon by some occult influence of the girl, said in a half whisper, “Yes.”

The editor did not question further, but led them into his room.  Here they lost the slight restraint they had shown, and began, child fashion, to become questioners themselves.

In a few moments they were in possession of his name, his business, the kind of restaurant he frequented, where he went when he left his room all day, the meaning of those funny slips of paper, and the written manuscripts, and why he was so quiet.  But any attempt of his to retaliate by counter questions was met by a sudden reserve so unchildlike and painful to him—­as it was evidently to themselves—­that he desisted, wisely postponing his inquiries until he could meet Roberts.