ugh him I found you."

"Found me?"

"It'll seem very strange, what I have to tell you.--You were a little
girl when I saw you last, and you refused to come with me. Had you any
idea why I asked you?"

"I hadn't then."

"But you have thought of it since?"

Ida looked at him sternly, and turned her eyes away again. The belief
that he was her father had always increased the resentment with which
she recalled his face.

"I am your grandfather," Abraham said gravely. "Your mother was my
daughter."

A change came over her countenance; she gazed at him with wonder.

"Who did you think I was?" he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, then, instead of replying, said:

"You behaved cruelly to my poor mother."

"I won't deny it," the old man returned, mastering his voice with
difficulty. "I ought to have been more patient with her. But she
refused to obey me, and I can't help my nature. I repented it when it
was too late."

Ida could not know what it cost him to utter these abrupt sentences. He
seemed harsh, even in confining his harshness. She was as far from him
as ever.

"I can't do anything for _her_," Mr. Woodstock continued, trying to
look her in the face. "But you are her child, and I want to do now what
I ought to have done long ago. I've come here to ask you if you'll live
in my house, and be like a child of my own."

"I don't feel to you as a child ought," Ida said, her voice changing to
sadness. "You've left it too late."

"No, it isn't too late!" exclaimed the other, with emotion he could not
control. "You mustn't think of yourself, but of me. You have all your
life before you, but I'm drawing near to the end of mine. There's no
one in the world belonging to me but you. I have a _right_ to--"

"No right! no right!" Ida interrupted him almost passionately.

"Then _you_ have a duty," said Abraham, with lowered voice. "My mind
isn't at ease, and it's in your power to help me. Don't imitate me, and
put off doing good till it is too late. I don't ask you to feel kindly
to me; all I want is that you'll let me take you to my home and do all
I can for you, both now and after I'm gone."

There was pathos in the speech, and Ida felt it.

"Do you know where I came from this morning?" she asked, when both had
been silent for some moments.

"I know all about it. I was at the trial, and I did my best for you
then."

"Do you believe that I robbed that woman?" Ida asked, leaning forward
with eager eyes and q