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.