Presently he heard the sound of a child's voice singing in subdued tone, as if fearful of being overheard. This time he laid aside his pen--it certainly was no delusion! The sound did not come from the open window, but from some space on a level with his room. Yet there was no contiguous building as high. He rose and tried to open his door softly, but it creaked, and the singing instantly ceased. There was nothing before him but the bare, empty hall, with its lathed and plastered partitions, and the two smaller rooms, unfinished like his own, on either side of him. Their doors were shut; the one at his right hand was locked, the other yielded to his touch. For the first moment he saw only the bare walls of the apparently empty room. But a second glance showed him two children--a boy of seven and a girl of five--sitting on the floor, which was further littered by a mattress, pillow, and blanket. There was a cheap tray on one of the trunks containing two soiled plates and cups and fragments of a meal. But there was neither a chair nor table nor any other article of furniture in the room. Yet he was struck by the fact that, in spite of this poverty of surrounding, the children were decently dressed, and the few scattered pieces of luggage in quality bespoke a superior condition. 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.