“You cannot shoot devils with a gun,” objected his mother.  “But when you feel the temptation coming, seize your rosary and say your prayers.”

Telesphore did not dare to gainsay this; but he shook his head doubtfully.  The gun seemed to him both the surer and the more amusing way, and he was accustomed to picture to himself a tremendous duel, a lingering slaughter from which he would emerge without spot or blemish, forever set free from the wiles of the Evil One.

Samuel Chapdelaine came into the house and supper was served.  The sign of the cross around the table; lips moving in a silent Benedicite, which Telesphore and Alma Rose repeated aloud; again the sign of the cross; the noise of chairs and bench drawn in; spoons clattering on plates.  To Maria it was as though since her absence she was giving attention for the first time in her life to these sounds and movements; that they possessed a different significance from movements and sounds elsewhere, and invested with some peculiar quality of sweetness and peace all that happened in that house far off in the woods.

Supper was nearly at an end when a footstep sounded without; Chien pricked up his ears but gave no growl.

“A visitor,” announced mother Chapdelaine, “Eutrope Gagnon has come over to see us.”

It was an easy guess, as Eutrope Gagnon was their only neighbour.  The year before he had taken up land two miles away, with his brother; the brother had gone to the shanties for the winter, and he was left alone in the cabin they had built of charred logs.  He appeared on the threshold, lantern in hand.

“Greeting to each and all,” was the salutation as he pulled off his woollen cap.  “A fine night, and there is still a crust on the snow-, as the walking was good I thought that I would drop in this evening to find out if you were back.”

Although he came to see Maria, as all knew, it was to the father of the house that he directed his remarks, partly through shyness, partly out of deference to the manners of the country.  He took the chair that was offered him.

“The weather is mild; if it misses turning wet it will be by very little.  One can feel that the spring rains are not far off ...”

It was the orthodox beginning to one of those talks among country folk which are like an interminable song, full of repetitions, each speaker agreeing with the words last uttered and adding more to the same effect.  And naturally the theme was the Canadian’s never-ending plaint; his protest, falling short of actual revolt, against the heavy burden of the long winter.  “The beasts have been in the stable since the end of October and the barn is just about empty,” said mother Chapdelaine.  “Unless spring comes soon I don’t know what we are going to do.”

“Three weeks at least before they can be turned out to pasture.”

“A horse, three cows, a pig and the sheep, without speaking of the fowls; it takes something to feed them!” this from Tit’Be with an air of grown-up wisdom.