Eliot foreshadows both Dunstan's grim accidental death and his decision to steal Silas's gold in the imagery in Chapter 4, which directly precedes Cass's stealthy entry into the weaver's house. As Dunstan walks in the dusk, he observes that:
The spot looked very dreary at this season, with the moist trodden clay about it, and the red, muddy water high up in the deserted quarry. That was Dunstan’s first thought as he approached it; the second was, that the old fool of a weaver, whose loom he heard rattling already, had a great deal of money hidden somewhere.
The "moisture" of the clay and the "red, muddy water" of the quarry-ponds foreshadow the destruction of Dunstan's mortal body in the hole he doesn't know is waiting for him. As he thinks about the dreariness of the Stone-Pits "first," and the realization that Silas's gold is hidden comes "second," Eliot links his future crime of theft with his impending punishment.
The "rattling" of Silas's loom reminds Dunstan that the expert weaver's money must be hidden somewhere; the silence of the "deserted" quarry is only broken by this sensory language of production. As the sounds of Silas's loom interrupt his life and prevent him from seeing people, it seems fitting that Dunstan hears them just before his own life is interrupted, and the deep water of the pit prevents people from seeing him at all.
Eliot populates much of the novel with motifs of theft and thievery, showing the reader that bad behavior and its consequences are unpredictable, and that theft can be experienced and committed by people of any social class. For example, in Chapter 5 when Silas leaves his cottage and Dunstan immediately steals his gold, the weaver thinks to himself that:
He could not have locked his door without undoing his well-knotted string and retarding his supper; it was not worth his while to make that sacrifice. What thief would find his way to the Stone-pits on such a night as this? and why should he come on this particular night, when he had never come through all the fifteen years before?
The "sacrifice" of having a late supper is of course quickly made to seem minimal by Silas's unanticipated "sacrifice" of his gold. It's a very expensive meal, as he only later finds out. Relying on the past as a predictor of the future is a bad idea for Silas. Here, although he has hoarded his money, he "spends" that carefulness very quickly as he ignorantly assumes the best possible outcome for his situation. The repeated use of rhetorical questions emphasizes this, as the narrator ventriloquizes Silas reasoning with "himself." In Silas Marner the assumption that "nothing will go wrong" is almost always a dangerous one. Prudence is extolled as an important virtue, and Silas's carelessness foreshadows his loss.
In Chapter 12, when Silas finds Eppie sleeping by his hearth, he believes for a moment that the toddler is actually his stolen gold miraculously returned. Eliot uses the imagery of gold—previously only aligned with greed and miserliness—to foreshadow to the reader that the protagonist has come into possession of an even larger treasure than his mass of coin:
Gold!—his own gold—brought back to him as mysteriously as it had been taken away! He felt his heart begin to beat violently, and for a few moments he was unable to stretch out his hand and grasp the restored treasure. The heap of gold seemed to glow and get larger [...] but instead of hard coin with the familiar resisting outline, his fingers encountered soft warm curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell on his knees and bent his head low to examine the marvel: it was a sleeping child—a round, fair thing with soft yellow rings all over its head.
The sensory language of the adorable "soft yellow rings" of Eppie's hair in contrast to the "hard" coins Silas is expecting suggests the total change in his character that is about to unfold. Silas wasn't expecting to encounter human warmth in his cottage, let alone his life as a whole. The sweet little girl completely overturns his world, allowing him to "touch" other people again.
Eppie is so sweet and innocent that even the narrator seems lost for words to describe her; Eliot, who's rarely repetitive, uses the word "soft" twice here. Everything about Eppie is relaxed, "round," and pliant, which is quite the opposite of the "resisting outline" of coins. The metal treasure-heap Silas had previously guarded like a miserly dragon has been replaced, to his "utter amazement," with a little girl.
The violence of the old weaver's beating heart as he takes in the scene is also contrasted with Eppie's relaxation and peaceful slumber. Silas was obsessively excited by the gold coins when they were in his possession, and protecting and accumulating them overtook his life to the exclusion of everything else. However, after he adopts Eppie (whom he also wants to protect and help to grow), he stops being lonely and opens himself up to the world. Rather than making his heart pound, she becomes the site of his rest and his peace. Rather than keeping him prisoner inside with his loom, she opens the doors to his heart.
At the end of Chapter 17, Nancy is standing by the door of her cottage anxiously awaiting Godfrey's return. In this scene, Eliot foreshadows the startling nature of Nancy's upcoming discussion with her husband; he is about to disclose finding Dunstan's skeleton and the truth about his relationships with Eppie and Molly. The author gives the reader a sense of foreboding by juxtaposing images of the sublime natural world with the language of death and shadow:
She continued to stand, however, looking at the placid churchyard with the long shadows of the gravestones across the bright green hillocks, and at the glowing autumn colours of the Rectory trees beyond. Before such calm external beauty the presence of a vague fear is more distinctly felt—like a raven flapping its slow wing across the sunny air. Nancy wished more and more that Godfrey would come in.
Images of "calm external beauty" and beckoning rural scenery dominate the first half of this passage. Although the vista is stunning, it's quickly marred by the "vague fear" that Nancy begins to feel. The raven's presence at the end of this quotation casts a shadow over the rest of the passage. Rather than being comforting, the gorgeous landscape only makes her unease with her current situation more acute. The "placid" churchyard, the "brightness" of the grass, and the "glowing autumn" of the Rectory contrast with the macabre simile of the "slow wing" of the raven that immediately follows them. The shadows of the gravestones "across the bright green hillocks," in hindsight, seem sinister, and the "glowing colors" of the leaves actually reflective of the death of summer foliage.
The raven is a symbol of death in all of Eliot's novels and in a great deal of the literature that precedes them. The bird is so recognizable as a harbinger of death that its mere presence is enough to chill Nancy deeply. Eliot uses these juxtaposed images of life and death to foreshadow the startling news Godfrey is about to convey to her about Molly and Eppie. Nancy feels that something bad is coming before she can even really know it, and so does the reader.
