One day (it was the first day on which John had been able to sit up in a chair), Mrs. Carey placed before him the little dinner which she had obtained with difficulty, and had prepared with the greatest care. The pale, gaunt man, who looked the wreck of what he had been, felt that strong craving for food which often follows long illness, and the slender repast which his mother brought excited his impatience and scorn. "Why, mother, you must think me a baby still," exclaimed the invalid almost with anger. "Is that spoonful of minced meat a dinner to put before a man who could devour a sirloin of beef? And where is the wine which the doctor said I must have?" added John, glancing impatiently round him. "My son," answered the widow meekly, "I give you what I can, not what I would?" She had herself not tasted meat for a fortnight. "What do you mean?" cried John. "You know as well as I do that I've plenty of money—there's all the legacy left by my uncle." Another pang to the heart of the mother! She had often noticed before that John's illness had affected his memory, but she had hoped of late that this was improving. It was a bitter disappointment to find him thus, as she thought, forgetting the fact that he had been robbed as well as almost murdered. "What do you mean?" repeated the sick man with petulance. "And why do you look so sad?" "My boy, you know that you were robbed of your all six weeks ago," said the widow. "Not of a farthing!" cried John. "Surely you cannot have gone on all this time without asking for the money?" He looked eagerly into the face of his mother, who could hardly bear to meet his excited gaze. "You applied for it yourself, dear John, on that dreadful Monday," said she. "And got a cheque—but the cheque was not signed, I could not cash it, I could not get a farthing of the money!" exclaimed John, with unusual animation. "Go, mother, go directly to the Justice, ask him for the legacy which he has in charge—tell him that the cheque was not worth a nettle-leaf!" John's manner was becoming more excited, for he read in his mother's face that she either did not understand, or did not believe him. "I cannot go to Justice Burns and ask him for—for—" Mrs. Carey did not finish the sentence aloud, but thought "for money which he doubtless has paid already." The simple widow knew nothing about cheques, had never seen one in her life, and she feared that her son's fever was returning upon him. "If you do not go, I must, and will!" exclaimed John, by a desperate effort starting to his feet, and then sinking back exhausted on his seat. "Oh! My son, I will do what you wish, anything that you wish!" cried the anxious mother. "Only promise that you will keep quiet, and I will go at once to the Justice." CHAPTER VI. The Mother's Errand.