“Children!” cried Rosenblatt.  “What are they to you?  They are not your children.”

“No, they are not my children, but they are my man’s, and I must keep them for him.  He would not like men to sleep in the same room with us.”

“What can harm them here?  I will come myself and be their protector,” cried the chivalrous Rosenblatt.  “And see, here is the very thing!  We will make for them a bed in this snug little closet.  It is most fortunate, and they will be quite comfortable.”

Still in Paulina’s slow-moving mind lingered some doubt as to the propriety of the suggested arrangement.  “But why should men come in here?  I do not need the money.  My man will send money every month.”

“Ah!” cried the alert and startled Rosenblatt, “every month!  Ah! very good!  But this house, you will remember, is not all paid for, and those English people are terrible with their laws.  Oh, truly terrible!” continued the solicitous agent.  “They would turn you and your children out into the snow.  Ah, what a struggle I had only last month with them!”

The mere memory of that experience sent a shudder of horror through Rosenblatt’s substantial frame, so that Paulina hastened to surrender, and soon Rosenblatt with three of his patrons, selected for their more gentle manners and for their ability to pay, were installed as night lodgers in the inner room at the rate of five dollars per month.  This rate he considered as extremely reasonable, considering that those of the outer room paid three dollars, while for the luxury of the cellar accommodation two dollars was the rate.

CHAPTER II

WHERE EAST MEETS WEST

The considerate thoughtfulness of Rosenblatt relieved Paulina of the necessity of collecting these monthly dues, to her great joy, for it was far beyond her mental capacity to compute, first in Galician and then in Canadian money, the amount that each should pay; and besides, as Rosenblatt was careful to point out, how could she deal with defaulters, who, after accumulating a serious indebtedness, might roll up their blankets and without a word of warning fade away into the winter night?  Indeed, with all her agent’s care, it not unfrequently happened that a lodger, securing a job in one of the cordwood camps, would disappear, leaving behind him only his empty space upon the floor and his debt upon the books, which Rosenblatt kept with scrupulous care.  Occasionally it happened, however, that, as in all bookkeeping, a mistake would creep in.  This was unfortunately the case with young Jacob Wassyl’s account, of whose perfidy Paulina made loud complaints to his friends, who straightway remonstrated with Jacob upon his return from the camp.  It was then that Jacob’s indignant protestations caused an examination of Rosenblatt’s books, whereupon that gentleman laboured with great diligence to make abundantly clear to all how the obliteration