“With the roads as they are we will not be the only ones who have to stay at home this evening,” said Madame Chapdelaine.  “But is there anything more lovely than the midnight mass at Saint Coeur de Marie, with Yvonne Boilly playing the harmonium, and Pacifique Simard who sings the Latin so beautifully!” She was very careful to say nothing that might seem reproachful or complaining on such a night as this, but in spite of herself the words and tone had a sad ring of loneliness and remoteness.  Her husband noticed it, and, himself under the influence of the day, was quick to take the blame.

“It is true enough, Laura, that you would have had a happier life with some other man than me, who lived on a comfortable farm, near the settlements.”

“No, Samuel; what the good God does is always right.  I grumble ...  Of course I grumble.  Is there anyone who hasn’t something to grumble about?  But we have never been unhappy, we two; we have managed to live without faring over-badly; the boys are fine boys, hard-working, who bring us nearly all they earn; Maria too is a good girl...”

Affected by these memories of the past, they also were thinking of the candles already lit, of the hymns soon to be raised in honour of the Saviour’s birth.  Life had always been a simple and a straightforward thing for them; severe but inevitable toil, a good understanding between man and wife, obedience alike to the laws of nature and of the.  Church.  Everything was drawn into the same woof; the rites of their religion and the daily routine of existence so woven together that they could not distinguish the devout emotion possessing them from the mute love of each for each.

Little Alma Rose heard praises in the air and hastened to demand her portion.  “I have been a good girl too, haven’t I, father?”

“Certainly ...  Certainly.  A black sin indeed if one were naughty on the day when the little Jesus was born.”

To the children, Jesus of Nazareth was ever “the little Jesus,” the curly-headed babe of the sacred picture; and in truth, for the parents as well, such was the image oftenest brought to mind by the Name.  Not the sad enigmatic Christ of the Protestant, but a being more familiar and less august, a newborn infant in his mother’s arms, or at least a tiny child who might be loved without great effort of the mind or any thought of the coming sacrifice.

“Would you like me to rock you?”

“Yes.”

He took the little girl on his knees and began to swing her back and forth.

“And are we going to sing too?”

“Yes.”

“Very well; now sing with me:” 

    Dans son etable,
    Que Jesus est charmant! 
    Qu’il est aimable
    Dans son abaissement

He began in quiet tones that he might not drown the other slender voice; but soon emotion carried him away and he sang with all his might, his gaze dreamy and remote.  Telesphore drew near and looked at him with worshipping eyes.  To these children brought up in a lonely house, with only their parents for companions, Samuel Chapdelaine embodied all there was in the world of wisdom and might.  As he was ever gentle and patient, always ready to take the children on his knee and sing them hymns, or those endless old songs he taught them one by one, they loved him with a rare affection.