THEIR MOTHER'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
It was Christmas Eve. The London express was late on account of the heavy storm of snow that had fallen during the day. Thomas, the coachman, muffled up, though he was in his fur cape, felt another quarter of an hour's waiting would freeze him to his seat, and his hands to the reins.
He had been walking the horses up and down for at least an hour outside the station, and the signal was still up.
He had not, however, much longer to wait.
A few minutes more and the red light of the approaching train came into sight, and before long the homeward journey had begun.
Thomas was thankful that his master's enquiries on seeing him, had been after his coachman's wife and family, and not after his own children.
He had been dreading the interview at the station, and was glad when he found himself driving the horses towards home, with his master safely inside the carriage.
"I couldn't, couldn't keep her alive for you, Father," he sobbed.
Major Fortescue, was a man in the prime of life, with hair nevertheless slightly tinged with grey. He sat leaning back in the carriage, his hand over his eyes. He was passing through deep waters during that drive, and he was thankful that in passing them, he was alone and in the dark, with no eye but that of God upon him.