and it soon began to look more like real obstinacy on Willy’s part than any thing she had ever seen in him.  She has often told me how she hesitated before entering on the campaign.  “I always knew,” she said, “that Willy’s first real fight with himself would be no matter of a few hours; and it was a particularly inconvenient time for me, just then, to give up a day to it.  But it seemed, on the whole, best not to put it off.”

So she said, “Now, Willy, you can’t get along without the letter G. The longer you put off saying it, the harder it will be for you to say it at last; and we will have it settled now, once for all.  You are never going to let a little bit of a letter like that be stronger than Willy.  We will not go out of this room till you have said it.”

Unfortunately, Willy’s will had already taken its stand.  However, the mother made no authoritative demand that he should pronounce the letter as a matter of obedience to her.  Because it was a thing intrinsically necessary for him to do, she would see, at any cost to herself or to him, that he did it; but he must do it voluntarily, and she would wait till he did.

The morning wore on.  She busied herself with other matters, and left Willy to himself; now and then asking, with a smile, “Well, isn’t my little boy stronger than that ugly old letter yet?”

Willy was sulky.  He understood in that early stage all that was involved.  Dinner-time came.

“Aren’t you going to dinner, mamma?”

“Oh! no, dear; not unless you say G, so that you can go too.  Mamma will stay by her little boy until he is out of this trouble.”

The dinner was brought up, and they ate it together.  She was cheerful and kind, but so serious that he felt the constant pressure of her pain.

The afternoon dragged slowly on to night.  Willy cried now and then, and she took him in her lap, and said, “Dear, you will be happy as soon as you say that letter, and mamma will be happy too, and we can’t either of us be happy until you do.”

“Oh, mamma! why don’t you make me say it?”

(This he said several times before the affair was over.)

“Because, dear, you must make yourself say it.  I am helping you make yourself say it, for I shall not let you go out of this room, nor go out myself, till you do say it; but that is all I shall do to help you.  I am listening, listening all the time, and if you say it, in ever so little a whisper, I shall hear you.  That is all mamma can do for you.”

Bed-time came.  Willy went to bed, unkissed and sad.  The next morning, when Willy’s mother opened her eyes, she saw Willy sitting up in his crib, and looking at her steadfastly.  As soon as he saw that she was awake, he exclaimed, “Mamma, I can’t say it; and you know I can’t say it.  You’re a naughty mamma, and you don’t love me.”  Her heart sank within her; but she patiently went again and again over yesterday’s