'I think we may appropriate this treasure-trove,' said Falconer, turning at last to me; and as he spoke, he took the eldest in his arms. Then, turning to the woman, he gave her a card, saying, 'If any inquiry is made about them, there is my address.--Will you take the other, Mr. Gordon?' I obeyed. The children cried no more. After traversing a few streets, we found a cab, and drove to a house in Queen Square, Bloomsbury. Falconer got out at the door of a large house, and rung the bell; then got the children out, and dismissed the cab. There we stood in the middle of the night, in a silent, empty square, each with a child in his arms. In a few minutes we heard the bolts being withdrawn. The door opened, and a tall graceful form wrapped in a dressing-gown, appeared. 'I have brought you two babies, Miss St. John,' said Falconer. 'Can you take them?' 'To be sure I can,' she answered, and turned to lead the way. 'Bring them in.' We followed her into a little back room. She put down her candle, and went straight to the cupboard, whence she brought a sponge-cake, from which she cut a large piece for each of the children. 'What a mercy they are, Robert,--those little gates in the face! Red Lane leads direct to the heart,' she said, smiling, as if she rejoiced in the idea of taming the little wild angelets. 'Don't you stop. You are tired enough, I am sure. I will wake my maid, and we'll get them washed and put to bed at once.' She was closing the door, when Falconer turned. 'Oh! Miss St. John,' he said, 'I was forgetting. Could you go down to No. 13 in Soap Lane--you know it, don't you?' 'Yes. Quite well.' 'Ask for a girl called Nell--a plain, pock-marked young girl--and take her away with you.' 'When shall I go?' 'To-morrow morning. But I shall be in. Don't go till you see me. Good-night.' We took our leave without more ado. 'What a lady-like woman to be the matron of an asylum!' I said. Falconer gave a little laugh. 'That is no asylum. It is a private house.' 'And the lady?' 'Is a lady of private means,' he answered, 'who prefers Bloomsbury to Belgravia, because it is easier to do noble work in it. Her heaven is on the confines of hell.' 'What will she do with those children?' 'Kiss them and wash them and put them to bed.' 'And after that?' 'Give them bread and milk in the morning.' 'And after that?' 'Oh! there's time enough. We'll see. There's only one thing she won't do.' 'What is that?' 'Turn them out again.' A pause followed, I cogitating. 'Are you a society, then?' I asked at length. 'No. At least we don't use the word. And certainly no other society would acknowledge us.' 'What are you, then?' 'Why should we be anything, so long as we do our work?' 'Don't you think there is some affectation in refusing a name?' 'Yes, if the name belongs to you? Not otherwise.' 'Do you lay claim to no epithet of any sort?' 'We are a church, if you like. There!' 'Who is your clergyman?' 'Nobody.' 'Where do you meet?'