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!”