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 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!”

Poor Herminia was sore tried.  As for the hundred a year, she couldn’t dream of accepting it; but like a flash it went through her brain how many advantages Dolly could enjoy in that wealthy household that the hard-working journalist could not possibly afford her.  She thought of the unpaid bills, the empty cupboard, the wolf at the door, the blank outlook for the future.  For a second, she half hesitated.  “Come, come!” Sir Anthony said; “for the child’s own sake; you won’t be so selfish as to stand in her way, will you?”