“I think there’s some mistake here, ma’am,” said Oliver, his eye wandering absently about the large entrance-hall; “this is the Hospital for Sick Children, I think, and I’ve brought my little grandchild here, who is very ill indeed, yet the man at the door says there’s no room for her.  I think it must be a mistake.”

“No,” said the lady; “I am sorry to say it is no mistake.  We are quite full; there is not room for even one more.  Indeed, we have been obliged to send cases away before to-day.  Who is your recommendation from?”

“I didn’t know you’d want any recommendation,” answered old Oliver, very mournfully; “she’s very ill, and you could cure her here, and take better care of her than Tony and me, and I thought that was enough.  I never thought of getting any recommendation, and I don’t know where I could get one.”

“Mr. Ross ’ud give us one,” said Tony, eagerly.

“Yet even then,” answered the lady, “we could not take her in until some of the cots are empty.”

“You don’t know me,” interrupted Tony, eagerly; “but Mr. Ross brought me here, a year ago now, and they cured me, and set me up stronger than ever.  They was so wery kind to me, that I couldn’t think of anythink else save bringing our little girl to ’em.  I’m sure they’d take her in, if they only knew it was her.  You jest say as it’s Tony and Dolly, as everybody took such notice of, and they’ll never turn her away, I’m sure.”

“I wish we could take her,” said the lady, with tears in her eyes; “but it is impossible.  We should be obliged to turn some other child out, and that could not be done to-night.  You had better bring her again in the morning, and we’ll see if there is any one well enough to make room for her.  Let me look at the poor child for a minute.”

She lifted up the collar of Tony’s blue jacket, which covered Dolly’s face, and looked down at it pitifully.  It was quite white now, and was pinched and hollow, with large blue eyes shining too brightly.  She stretched out her arms to the lady, and made a great effort to smile.

“Put Dolly into a pretty bed,” she murmured, “where the sun shines, and she’ll soon get well and go home again to gan-pa.”

“What can I do?” cried the lady, the tears now running down her face.  “The place is quite full; we cannot take in one more, not one.  Bring her here again in the morning, and we will see what can be done.”

“How many children have you got here?” asked old Oliver.

“We have only seventy-five cots,” she answered, sobbing; “and in a winter like this they’re always full.”

“Only seventy-five!” repeated the old man, very sorrowfully.  “Only seventy-five, and there are hundreds and hundreds of little children ill in London!  They are ill in houses like mine, where the sun never shines.  Is there no other place like this we could take our little love to?”

“There are two or three other Hospitals,” she answered, “but they are a long way off, and none of them as large as ours.  They are sure to be full just now.  I think there are not more than a hundred and fifty cots in all London for sick children.”