When John was once known to be likely to recover, interest in his case grew weaker, while the need for help grew greater. The hunger of convalescence began just when the shelf was empty; and bills came dropping in when not a sixpence was left in the purse. The baker, who had at first been all sympathy and bustling kindness, shrugged his shoulders, and threw out hints that a man in receipt of wages was bound to subscribe to a club, and not leave the burden of his support during sickness to a widowed mother, and neighbours who were willing enough to help, but who had to care for families of their own. Dick Brace, over his glass of foaming ale, observed that John Carey had been a simpleton to travel at night with thirty pounds in his pocket, and doubly a simpleton for having given notice in a low inn that he intended to do so. Mrs. Carey, worn out with anxiety and watching, her nerves shaken by lack of sleep, her spirits depressed by debt and difficulties which thickened around her, found it hard indeed to let patience have its perfect work, and to place firm trust in the changeless love of Him who so sorely tried her. There are times in the experience of most Pilgrims to Heaven when darkness seems to be above and around them, and the Tempter whispers into their troubled ears, "God hath forgotten to be gracious." The feeble body weighs down the soul, the spirit can scarcely rise in prayer. In such seasons of weakness and gloom, how soothing these words of Scripture! "Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of His servant, that walketh, in darkness and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God." * * Isaiah l. 10. The widow could better have borne her outward trials, her son's illness, and the poverty which it brought with it, had she been able to see any spiritual good arising from them to one who was dearer to her than life. But it did not seem to Mrs. Carey that affliction had brought John nearer to God. When his brain had been excited by fever, it was about Dinah that he had raved; and now, though he spoke but little, John had more than once dropped words which shewed that he had not given up his scheme of partnership with Brace, that he still looked forward to being joint-landlord with him of the little public-house near the brick field. This grieved the widow beyond everything else. She did not, indeed, fear that either Dick or Dinah would have much to do with a penniless man who might—and probably would—be unable to work for months yet to come; but that John after all that had happened—after what seemed to his mother like a solemn warning from Heaven—should persist in going on his own wilful way against the wishes of a parent who had almost broken down her health in nursing him, nearly crushed his mother with grief.