They all looked straight before them in speaking, and yet what they said seemed to be for Maria alone, as if the dear secret of her heart were open to them.  But she spoke not, nor moved, her eyes fixed upon the frosted panes of the little window, impenetrable as the wall.

Eutrope Gagnon did not linger.  The Chapdelaines, left to themselves, were long without speech.  At last the father said in a halting voice:—­” Francois Paradis was almost alone in the world; now, as we all had an affection for him, we perhaps might have a mass or two said.  What do you think, Laura?”

“Yes indeed.  Three high masses with music, and when the boys return from the woods—­in health, if such be the will of the good God-three more for the repose of his soul, poor lad!  And every Sunday we shall, say I a prayer for him.”

“He was like the rest of us,” Chapdelaine continued, “not without fault, of course, but kindly and well-living.  God and the Holy Virgin will have pity on him.”

Again silence.  Maria well. knew it was for her they said these things-aware of her grief and seeking to assuage it; but she was not able to speak, either to praise the dead or utter.-her sorrow.  A hand had fastened upon her throat, stifling her, as the narrative unfolded and the end loomed inevitable; and now this hand found its way into her breast and was crushing her heart.  Presently she would know a yet more intolerable pain, but now she only felt the deadly grasp of those five fingers closed about her heart.

Other words were said, but they scarce reached her ear; then came the familiar evening stir of preparation for the night, the father’s departure on a last visit to the stable and his swift return, face red with the cold, slamming the door hastily in a swirl of frosty vapour.

“Come, Maria.”  The mother called her very gently, and laid a hand upon her shoulder.  She rose and went to kneel and pray with the others.  Voice answered to voice for ten minutes, murmuring the sacred words in low monotone.

The usual prayer at an end, the mother whispered:—­” Yet five Paters and five Aves for the souls of those who have suffered misfortune in the forest.”  And the voices again rose, this time more subdued, breaking sometimes to a sob.

When they were silent, and all had risen after the last sign of the cross, Maria went back to the window.  The frost upon the panes made of them so many fretted squares through which the eye could not penetrate, shutting away the outside world; but Maria saw them not, for the tears welled to her eyes and blinded her.  She stood there motionless, with arms hanging piteously by her side, a stricken figure of grief; then a sudden anguish yet keener and more unbearable seized upon her; blindly she opened the door and went out upon the step.