The landlady, dropping the modern apology for a courtesy, promised

with effusion under pressure of hard cash, to accede to Sir

Anthony's benevolent wishes. The more so as she'd do anything to

serve dear Mrs. Barton, who was always in everything a perfect

lady, most independent, in fact; one of the kind as wouldn't be

beholden to anybody for a farthing.

Some months passed away before the landlady had cause to report to

Sir Anthony. But during the worst depths of the next London

winter, when gray fog gathered thick in the purlieus of Marylebone,

and shivering gusts groaned at the street corners, poor little

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Dolly caught whooping-cough badly. On top of the whooping-cough

came an attack of bronchitis; and on top of the bronchitis a

serious throat trouble. Herminia sat up night after night, nursing

her child, and neglecting the work on which both depended for

subsistence. Week by week things grew worse and worse; and Sir

Anthony, kept duly informed by the landlady, waited and watched,

and bided his time in silence. At last the case became desperate.

Herminia had no money left to pay her bill or buy food; and one

string to her bow after another broke down in journalism. Her

place as the weekly lady's-letter writer to an illustrated paper

passed on to a substitute; blank poverty stared her in the face,

inevitable. When it came to pawning the type-writer, as the

landlady reported, Sir Anthony smiled a grim smile to himself. The

moment for action had now arrived. He would put on pressure to get

away poor Alan's illegitimate child from that dreadful woman.

Next day he called. Dolly was dangerously ill,--so ill that

Herminia couldn't find it in her heart to dismiss the great doctor

from her door without letting him see her. And Sir Anthony saw

her. The child recognized him at once and rallied, and smiled at

him. She stretched her little arms. She must surely get well if a

gentleman who drove in so fine a carriage, and scattered sovereigns

like ha'pennies, came in to prescribe for her. Sir Anthony was

flattered at her friendly reception. Those thin small arms touched

the grandfather's heart. "She will recover," he said; "but she

needs good treatment, delicacies, refinements." Then he slipped

out of the room, and spoke seriously to Herminia. "Let her come to

me," he urged. "I'll adopt her, and give her her father's name.

It will be better for herself; better for her future. She shall be

treated as my granddaughter, well-taught, well-kept; and you may

see her every six months for a fortnight's visit. If you consent,

I will allow you a hundred a year for yourself. Let bygones be

bygones. For the child's sake, say YES! She needs so much that

you can never give her!"




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