True to his Colours | Page 7

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 the Sunday-
school, and hear read at church? She could scarcely believe it. It
seemed now as if this were altogether another book, just written and
printed expressly for her, to meet her case. All the once familiar
passages and verses had new life and light in them now. The baby
stirred; she hushed it back to sleep. The fire burned low, but she read
on,--she was living out of herself.
At last she laid down the little volume, and resting her forehead on her
hand, thought long and deeply, her lips moving in silent prayer. Then
she started up hastily, stirred and brightened up the fire, and put the
room and herself into the best order that she could. Then she took up
the Bible again, and gazing at it earnestly, said slowly and half-out loud
to herself, "Wherever can this have come from?" And then a voice
seemed to speak within her; and lifting up her eyes reverently to that
heaven which she had never dared to think about for years past, she

exclaimed softly and fervently, as she clasped her hands together: "O
my God, thou didst send it! It came to me from heaven!"
But her thoughts were soon recalled to earth again. Her husband's step
was heard now. It was past ten o'clock, and he was returning from his
club.
It was often now that she had to watch and wait in weariness to as late
an hour. "He mustn't see this," she cried shudderingly to herself, as she
heard his hand upon the latch; "not yet, not yet!" So, snatching up the
little Bible, she placed it deep down under the clothes of the baby's
cradle.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE RAILWAY BRIDGE.
The Crossbourne station was not in the town itself, but on the outskirts,
about a quarter of a mile distant from the Town Hall. Nevertheless, the
town was creeping up to it in the form of a suburb, which would ere
long reach the station gates. Crossbourne, the present flourishing
manufacturing town, occupied the hills on either side of the little
stream, the greater part of it being to the north, in the direction of the
parish church. The station itself was on high ground, and looked across
over open country, the line in the London direction passing from it
through the centre of the town over a noble viaduct of some twenty
arches. In the opposite direction the line made a gradual descent from
the station, and at a mile's distance passed through a cutting, towards
the farther end of which it inclined northwards in a sharp curve.
Just about the middle of this curve, and where the cutting was pretty
deep, a massive wooden foot-bridge was thrown across the line. This
was at a place not much frequented, as the bridge formed only part of a
short cut into a by-road which led to one or two farms on the hill- sides.
Along the rails round this ascending curve the ordinary trains laboured
with bated breath; and even the dashing express was compelled to
slacken here a little in its speed.

It was on the 23rd of December, the same night in which Kate Foster
received so mysteriously the little Bible which was dropped with the
ring into her parlour, that four men were plodding along in the darkness
over a field-way which led to the wooden bridge just mentioned. They
were dressed in their ordinary mill or foundry working-clothes, and
seemed, from their stealthy walk and crouching manner, to be out on no
good or honest errand. Three of them slouched along with their hands
deep in their pockets; the fourth carried a bag of some kind, which
apparently was no burden to him, for it swung lightly backwards and
forwards on two of his fingers. The men's faces were all muffled in
scarves, and their caps pulled down over their eyes. As they walked
along the field-path in single file they preserved a profound silence. At
last they reached a stile which brought them out close to the end of the
bridge which was nearest to the up-line, along which the trains to
London passed.
It was now nearly half-past ten. Everything around was profoundly still,
except the faint wailing of the wind among the telegraph wires. A
drizzling rain had been falling at intervals, for the season was
remarkably mild for the time of year, though the little air that blew was
raw and chilly. It was very dark, nevertheless the great wooden parapet
of