"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.