id, not dreaming of any
special contest, "This time you must say G." "It is an ugly old letter,
and I ain't ever going to try to say it again," said Willy, repeating the
alphabet very rapidly from beginning to end, without the G. Like a wise
mother, she did not open at once on a struggle; but said, pleasantly, "Ah!
you did not get it in that time. Try again; go more slowly, and we will
have it." It was all in vain; 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 s