She was alone
when he came in, and after he had inquired after her condition, she
motioned him to a chair.
"Sit down, Paul," she said; "I want to have a little talk with you."
He sat down and she went on: "I find that I have been greatly enfeebled
by this attack, and though the doctor tells me I may regain reasonable
health, he warns me that I shall not live for ever, and that when I die I
may die without much warning."
Expressions of mingled grief, surprise, and incredulity from Paul
interrupted her at this point, but she presently went on:--
"It is really nothing to distress yourself over, my dear child. He does
not say that I may not live on indefinitely, but only that when death
comes he is likely to enter without knocking, and I'm sure any sensible
person would much rather have it so. It was of Ida that I wanted to speak
to you. Since I have been sick, and especially since what the doctor told
me, I have been thinking what would become of her if I should die. Did
you ever consider, Paul, that she has not even a name? The world does not
recognize the way by which she came back into it, and in the eye of the
law she has no right to the name of Ida Ludington, or to any other.
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