"Forgive—I've nothing to forgive!" cried the Justice, surprised in his turn. "I never dreamed that the cheque had not been signed, till two days ago I glanced over my bank-book, and found that the thirty pounds had never been drawn by your son. As I had concluded—like the rest of the world—that he had been robbed of that sum, I wrote up to London to make inquiries, and heard this morning that a countryman had presented an unsigned cheque in Argyll Street, which, of course, had not been cashed. I'll not trouble you again with cheque; here's the money in good hard cash; I'd have sent it, had you not called;" the Justice pushed across the table a canvass bag heavy with gold. "I suppose that you can give a receipt; just count out the money, and see that all's right." To the surprise of the Justice, the poor widow, instead of taking up the bag, burst into tears. The relief was so great, so unexpected, that, weak as she was, it quite overcame her. "Well, I see nothing to cry about," said Justice Burns, in a softened tone, for, selfish as he was, even he had a kindly corner in his heart; "it was odd enough that I should have made such a blunder for the first time in my life, but it was the rarest piece of luck for your son that I neglected to sign that cheque." "It was a blessing," faltered the widow, drying her eyes. "Oh! Sir—it was all through God's blessing!" CHAPTER VII. Thinking over it. WHILE his mother was putting on her bonnet before setting out on her errand, John Carey had finished the slender meal which appeared to leave him more hungry than before. He had watched the widow as she had taken his father's staff from the corner to stay her feeble steps, and it had then struck John, for the first time, how much his mother had aged since his illness, how pale and weary she looked. "Stay, dear mother," John had cried, with a feeling of self-reproach; "you look so tired, I can't bear to see it. Wait, and we'll find some one else to send." But the widow's only reply had been a faint smile, as she had left the cottage on her errand for her son. "My mother has been half-killing herself for me, ungrateful dog that I am," muttered John, his self-reproach growing stronger and stronger. "Why, what can she have been living on all these six weeks, while I've been lying like a log in my bed? I can see well enough in her face what she's been a-suffering for me, without grudging, without complaining, bearing with all my ill temper, nursing me night after night! And what kind of a return do I make for it all? Did I not say to mother this very morning that I wanted to speak to Dick Brace about our little piece of business? She only sighed—I could see she was vexed; but I let her be vexed rather, than give up what I'd set my heart on.