On that evening she was sitting alone in her room when her mother
came to her, and her eyes were red with weeping. Pen and paper were
before her, as though she were resolved to write, but hitherto no
word had been written.

"Well, Bessy," said her mother, sitting down close beside her; "is
the deed done?"

"What deed, mamma? Who says that I am to do it?"

"The deed is not the writing, but the resolution to write. Five
words will be sufficient,--if only those five words may be written."

"It is for one's whole life, mamma. For his life, as well as my
own."

"True, Bessy;--that is quite true. But equally true whether you bid
him come or allow him to remain away. That task of making up one's
mind for life, must at last be done in some special moment of that
life."

"Mamma, mamma; tell me what I should do."

But this Mrs. Garrow would not do. "I will write the words for you
if you like," she said, "but it is you who must resolve that they
shall be written. I cannot bid my darling go away and leave me for
another home;--I can only say that in my heart I do believe that
home would be a happy one."