hina ornament
on the mantelpiece. He heard the sobs forcibly checked, and, when there
was silence, again faced his grandchild.

"You'll be left all alone now, you see," he said, his voice less hard.
"I was a friend of your mother's, and I'll do what I can for you. You'd
better come with me to my house."

Ida looked at him in surprise, tempered with indignation.

"If you were a friend of mother's," she said, "why did you want to take
me away from her and never let her see me again?"

"Well, you've nothing to do with that," said Abraham roughly. "Go and
put your things on, and come with me."

"No," replied Ida firmly. "I don't want to go with you."

"What you want has nothing to do with it. You will do as I tell you."

Abraham felt strangely in this interview. It was as though time were
repeating itself, and he was once more at issue with his daughter's
childish wilfulness.

Ida did not move.

"Why won't you come?" asked Mr. Woodstock sharply.

"I don't want to," was Ida's answer.

"Look here, then," said the other, after a brief consideration. "You
have the choice, and you're old enough to see what it means. You can
either come with me and be well cared for, or stay here and shift as
best you can; now, be sharp and make up your mind."

"I don't wish to go with you, I'll stay here and do my best."

"Very well."

Mr. Woodstock whistled a bar of an air, stepped from the room, and
thence out into the streets.

It was not his intention really to go at once. Irritation had made it
impossible for him to speak longer with the child; he would walk the
length of the street and return to give her one more chance. Distracted
in purpose as he had never been in his life before, he reached
Marylebone Road; rain was just beginning to fall, and he had no
umbrella with him. He stood and looked back. Ida once out of his sight,
that impatient tenderness which her face inspired failed before the
recollection of her stubbornness. She had matched her will with his, as
bad an omen as well could be. What was the child to him, or he to her?
He did not feel capable of trying to make her like him; what good in
renewing the old conflicts and upsetting the position of freedom he had
attained? Doubtless she inherited a fatal disposition. In his mind
lurked the foreknowledge that he might come to be fond of this little
outcast, but Woodstock was incapable as yet of understanding that love
must and will be its own reward. The rain fel