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 quickened breath.