He was glad when they fell to playing games with each other quite naturally, yet not entirely forgetting his propinquity, as their occasional furtive glances at his movements showed him.  He, too, became presently absorbed in his work, until it was finished and it was time for him to take it to the office of the “Informer.”  The wild idea seized him of also taking the children afterwards for a holiday to the Mission Dolores, but he prudently remembered that even this negligent mother of theirs might have some rights over her offspring that he was bound to respect.

He took leave of them gayly, suggesting that the doll be replaced in his bed while he was away, and even assisted in “tucking it up.”  But during the afternoon the recollection of these lonely playfellows in the deserted house obtruded itself upon his work and the talk of his companions.  Sunday night was his busiest night, and he could not, therefore, hope to get away in time to assure himself of their mother’s return.

It was nearly two in the morning when he returned to his room.  He paused for a moment on the threshold to listen for any sound from the adjoining room.  But all was hushed.

His intention of speaking to the night watchman was, however, anticipated the next morning by that guardian himself.  A tap upon his door while he was dressing caused him to open it somewhat hurriedly in the hope of finding one of the children there, but he met only the embarrassed face of Roberts.  Inviting him into the room, the editor continued dressing.  Carefully closing the door behind him, the man began, with evident hesitation,—­

“I oughter hev told ye suthin’ afore, Mr. Breeze; but I kalkilated, so to speak, that you wouldn’t be bothered one way or another, and so ye hadn’t any call to know that there was folks here”—­

“Oh, I see,” interrupted Breeze cheerfully; “you’re speaking of the family next door—­the landlord’s new tenants.”

“They ain’t exactly that,” said Roberts, still with embarrassment.  “The fact is—­ye see—­the thing points this way:  they ain’t no right to be here, and it’s as much as my place is worth if it leaks out that they are.”

Mr. Breeze suspended his collar-buttoning, and stared at Roberts.

“You see, sir, they’re mighty poor, and they’ve nowhere else to go—­and I reckoned to take ’em in here for a spell and say nothing about it.”

“But the landlord wouldn’t object, surely?  I’ll speak to him myself,” said Breeze impulsively.

“Oh, no; don’t!” said Roberts in alarm; “he wouldn’t like it.  You see, Mr. Breeze, it’s just this way:  the mother, she’s a born lady, and did my old woman a good turn in old times when the family was rich; but now she’s obliged—­just to support herself, you know—­to take up with what she gets, and she acts in the bally in the theatre, you see, and hez to come in late o’ nights.  In them cheap boarding-houses, you know, the folks looks down upon her for that, and won’t hev her, and in the cheap hotels the men are—­you know—­a darned sight wuss, and that’s how I took her and her kids in here, where no one knows ’em.”