When she returned from Sir Anthony\'s to her mother\'s lodgings, she found Herminia, very pale, in the sitting-room, waiting for her. Her eyes were fixed on a cherished autotype of a Pinturicchia at Perugia,—Alan\'s favorite picture. Out of her penury she had bought it. It represented the Madonna bending in worship over her divine child, and bore the inscription: "Quem genuit adoravit." Herminia loved that group. To her it was no mere emblem of a dying creed, but a type of the eternal religion of maternity. The Mother adoring the Child! \'Twas herself and Dolly.

"Well?" Herminia said interrogatively, as her daughter entered, for she half feared the worst.

"Well," Dolores answered in a defiant tone, blurting it out in sudden jerks, the rebellion of a lifetime finding vent at last. "I\'ve been to my grandfather, my father\'s father; and I\'ve told him everything; and it\'s all arranged: and I\'m to take his name; and I\'m to go and live with him."

"Dolly!" the mother cried, and fell forward on the table with her face in her hands. "My child, my child, are you going to leave me?"

"It\'s quite time," Dolly answered, in a sullen, stolid voice. "I can\'t stop here, of course, now I\'m almost gr............