True to his Colours | Page 6

her tears, she leaned eagerly and breathlessly forward into the cradle. Was it gone? Was it really taken from her? No; she could hear its disturbed breathing still. And then as she knelt on, with clasped hands and throbbing heart, something brought to her lips words of prayer: "O Lord! O Lord, have pity on me! Oh, baby, baby!--don't take baby from me!"
Even that poor prayer gave her some relief, followed as it was by an agony of weeping. Never had she uttered a word of prayer before since the day she was married, and her own words startled her. Yet again and again she felt constrained to make her simple supplication, pleading earnestly for her baby's life with the God the reality of whose being and power she now felt, spite of herself.
But what was that sound that made her spring up from her knees, and listen with colourless cheeks and panting breath? She thought she heard footsteps pass under the half-open window. There was no regular road at the back of the house, but the premises could be approached in that direction by a narrow path along the side of the hill which shut in the buildings in the rear. Between the hill and the house was a back-yard into which the parlour looked, and through this yard William would sometimes come from his work; but ordinary visitors came to the front, and trades-people to a side door on the left.
Could the footsteps have been those of her husband? And had he paused to listen to her words of earnest and passionate prayer? If so, she well knew what a torrent of ridicule and sarcastic reproach she must prepare herself for. And yet the step did not sound like his. Alas! she had learned to know it now too well! She dreaded it. There was no music in it now for her. Perhaps she was mistaken. She listened eagerly; all was still, and once more her eyes and heart turned towards the little cradle, as the restless babe woke up with a start and a cry. So again she knelt beside it, and, rocking it, gave free vent to her tears, and to words of prayer, though uttered now more softly.
But there--there was that footstep again! There could be no mistake about it now; and as certainly it was not her husband's tread. Annoyed now that some intruder should be lurking about and listening to her words, she was just going to ask angrily who was there, when the casement was pushed cautiously a little more open, and a hand holding a small book was thrust into the room.
Amazed, terrified, Kate stood up erect, and stared with parted lips at the strange intrusion. What could it mean? The hand was that of a woman, and there were rings on the fingers. It was but a moment that she had time to mark these things; for before she could recover from her surprise, the mysterious hand had dropped the book into the room, and with it one of its rings, which rolled towards the hearth, sparkling as it went. Then there was a rapid retreat of quiet footsteps outside, and all was still again.
Taking up the ring, which had a red stone in the centre like a ruby, and was seemingly of considerable value, after examining it for a moment, she put it into her pocket, and then picked up the little book, which lay on the floor where it had fallen, just underneath the window. She knew what it was in a moment,--a small Bible. It was very old, and very much worn, and had clearly done good service to its owner, or owners, for many a long year. Sitting by the cradle, and rocking it with one hand, she held the little volume in the other, and closely examined it. The paper of which it was made was coarse, and the printing old- fashioned. On the inside of the stiff cover was written in faded ink:--
Steal not this book for fear of shame, For here you see the owner's name. June 10, 1798. Mary Williams.
Kate's perplexities only increased. But now her attention was drawn to the words themselves of the book. As she turned over page after page, she noticed that all the most striking texts were underlined with red- ink, especially those which spoke of help in trouble, and of the mercy and love of God. Her attention was now thoroughly aroused. Verse after verse was read by her, with tearful eyes and a heart opening itself to the sunshine of divine love; while every fresh text, as she turned from leaf to leaf, seemed more and more appropriate to her own troubles and sorrows.
Could this be the same Bible which she used to read in