"What's goin' to be done?
Do you know what's goin' to be done, Jerome Edwards ?" The boy stared at her, and her sharply questioning eyes struck him dumb.
Ann Edwards had always been the dominant spirit in her own household.
The fact that she was so, largely on masculine sufferance, had never been fully recognized by herself or others.

Now, for the first time, the stratum of feminine dependence and helplessness, which had underlain all her energetic assertion, was made manifest, and poor little Jerome was spurred out of his boyhood into manhood to meet this new demand.
"What's goin' to be done ?" his mother cried again.

"Why don't you speak, Jerome Edwards ?" Then Jerome drew himself up, and a new look came into his face.

"I've been thinkin' of it over," he said, soberly, "an'-- I've got a plan." "What's goin' to be done ?" Ann raised herself in bed by her clutch at her son's arm.

Then she let go, and rocked herself to and fro, hugging herself with her little lean arms, and wailing weakly.
"What's goin' to be done?
Oh, oh! what's goin' to be done?
Abel's dead, he's dead, and Doctor Prescott, he holds the mortgage.