CHAPTER VI.

The Mother's Errand.

NEVER had Mrs. Carey gone more unwillingly on an errand. It was not merely that—after being long shut up in a sick-room, weakened by watching and fasting, the fresh air made her feel giddy, so that, but for her husband's good staff, she could scarcely have gone on her way; but that she shrank with extreme dislike from making what she feared to be an unjust claim, and naturally dreaded that, by so doing, she would arouse the anger of the Justice, whose irritable temper was well known in the village.

"I'm sure that I shall never have the face to give him my poor son's message," murmured the widow, as she at last reached the Justice's door, and timidly rang the bell, so timidly that the sound was not heard, and she had to ring again.

"Would the Justice be so kind as to see me, just for two minutes," said the poor woman, when the butler at last appeared at the door.

The man glanced at the thin, anxious face, the shabby but decent mourning; he felt pity for a widow who, as he believed, had come to ask for charity, and who was not likely to receive it.

"Master does not care to see poor folk," observed he; "there's no use coming to him."

"Perhaps if you were so kind as to give him my name, Widow Carey, he might let me have just a word with him; I bring a message from my son."

"Your son, what, the poor fellow who was almost battered to pieces in the lane!" cried the butler. "Just you wait here a little—there's no harm in taking in your name."

The butler was scarcely absent a minute, but in that minute the poor widow had found time for a silent, fervent prayer.

"The Justice will see you," said the kindhearted man, and Mrs. Carey was ushered into the study.

The knees of the widow trembled under her, partly from weariness, partly from fear; she grasped her staff more tightly, and leant more heavily on it. Timidly she glanced at the Justice as she entered his presence. He was, as when John had seen him, bolstered with cushions and swathed with wraps, but his fat swollen face looked more grave and annoyed than when young Carey had come for his money.

"How shall I ever dare to tell him what brings me here!" thought the widow.

Justice Burns was the first to speak, which he did in a sharp decided tone. "I know what you've come for, Mrs. Carey."

"He's clever—for I scarce know myself," was the poor woman's silent reflection.

"When a man's ill, and worried with sleeplessness and pain," continued the Justice, knitting his brows, "no one has a right to find fault, if for once, he make a stupid blunder."

"I'm so glad—so thankful that you think so, Sir, I'm sure you're very good," began John's mother, amazed that the Justice should guess beforehand what she had come to say. "I hope then, that you'll kindly forgive—"

"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!"