The Captive Bride by Gilbert Morris Page B

words would not come. So she walked beside the cold river, the dead brown grasses of summer breaking beneath her feet, and her heart rose up to God. She did not know what it was that she brought to God, but as the urgent cries of her soul ascended, somehow the presence of God came down, and the fear that had pierced her fled and she knew a peace in her spirit such as she had never known!
    For many days this was her strength. Day after day rolled by, turning into weeks, then months, and there was no trial. Everything in her world was shaken. Elizabeth grew worse, so much worse that Lydia moved into the Bunyan house and with Mary’s help did all the housework. She was a comfort to Elizabeth, spending hours reading the Word of God, and the children came to look on her as a second mother.
    She made the short journey to the jail daily, for the state did not furnish food for the prisoners. This made the chore even more demanding, for neither she nor John Bunyan could bear to see those prisoners who had no family nor friends starve; therefore, she brought as much extra food as she could.
    Matthew’s condition worsened almost daily. He lost weight at such an alarming rate that she feared for his life. His lungs were affected by the biting cold, and he developed a cough that disturbed them all. But even worse was the awful depression that gripped him. He spoke little, and seemed not to hear what she said most of the time.
    Her walks along the river grew longer, and she prayedfervently; prayer built her up, edified her spirit, and enabled her to carry the heavy burden.
    Snow came, and on the second day when the earth was muffled with white, Lydia left the Bunyan cottage and started for the jail. The heavy pot of soup dragged at her arm, and walking was difficult in the six-inch blanket of snow that covered the earth.
    She had turned the corner onto the main road that led to the jail, and as she lifted her eyes, what she saw sent a shock running through her so violent that she almost dropped the heavy iron pot.
    â€œMatthew!” she cried out, struggling to run toward him, crying out his name, filled with wonder that he was free.
    Finally she set the pot down and ran toward him, her eyes so blinded with tears that she could barely see the tall figure so familiar to her. She fell into his arms and he caught her with a powerful grip.
    â€œMatthew! Oh, my dear!” she cried out, holding to him as if she would never let him go.
    Then she heard the familiar voice—but at the same time strangely different, “Well, daughter, I am here...!”
    She looked up, drawing back at once from his embrace. She saw a wedge-shaped face with wide lips, cornflower blue eyes such as she loved in Matthew—but it was not her husband!
    He said, “I’ve just come from my son, Lydia. We have much to pray about, you and I.” Then he smiled, and she saw the same courage and strength in the father’s eyes that she had fallen in love with in Matthew. “But first, will you allow me to have a father’s embrace? For you are my daughter now!”
    She gave a cry and fell into Gilbert Winslow’s strong arms as a battered ship comes out of a wild tearing storm into the peace and safety of a calm harbor!

CHAPTER SEVEN
    THE TRIAL
    â€œShe slipped away with the tide,” Gilbert Winslow said slowly. “Just as she had lived trusting in the Lord God, so she endured her going hence.” He sat relaxed in front of the cheerful fire that threw leaping figures on the walls of the small cottage. There was a quietness and peace in his voice that took away the sting of the news that Matthew’s mother was dead. He leaned forward to pick up the heavy iron poker, and Lydia’s eyes stung as she recognized in her father-in-law the easy grace and strength that she loved in Matthew.
    â€œIt must have been terribly hard on you, Mr. Winslow.”
    â€œHard?” He looked at her with a starboard twist of his