said, "Oh! yes, you will, dear. I think you will say that letter before
tea-time, and we will have a nice evening downstairs together."

"I can't say it. I try all the time, and I can't say it; and, if you keep
me here till I die, I shan't ever say it."

The second night settled down dark and gloomy, and Willy cried himself to
sleep. His mother was ill from anxiety and confinement; but she never
faltered. She told me she resolved that night that, if it were necessary,
she would stay in that room with Willy a month. The next morning she said
to him, more seriously than before, "Now, Willy, you are not only a
foolish little boy, you are unkind; you are making everybody unhappy.
Mamma is very sorry for you, but she is also very much displeased with
you. Mamma will stay here with you till you say that letter, if it is for
the rest of your life; but mamma will not talk with you, as she did
yesterday. She tried all day yesterday to help you, and you would not help
yourself; to-day you must do it all alone."

"Mamma, are you sure I shall ever say it?" asked Willy.

"Yes, dear; perfectly sure. You will say it some day or other."

"Do you think I shall say it to-day?"

"I can't tell. You are not so strong a little boy as I thought. I believed
you would say it yesterday. I am afraid you have some hard work before
you."

Willy begged her to go down and leave him alone. Then he begged her to
shut him up in the closet, and "see if that wouldn't make him good." Every