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 fell heavier, and at this moment an omnibus came up. He hailed
it, saying to himself that he would think the matter over and come
back on the morrow. The first part of his purpose he fulfilled; but
to Milton Street he never returned.

As soon as he had left the house, Mrs. Ledward bounced into the room
where Ida stood.

"You little idjot!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean by refusing a
offer like that!--Why, the gentleman's your own father."

"My father!" repeated Ida, in scornful astonishment. "My father died
when I was a baby. Mother's told me so often."

"If you believe all your mother told you,--Well, well, you have