“O Christ Jesus, who didst stretch forth Thine arm to those in need, why didst Thou not disperse the snows with those pale hands of Thine?  Holy Virgin, why didst Thou not sustain him by Thy power when, for the last time, his feet were stumbling?  In all the legions of heaven why was there found no angel to show him the way?”

But it is her grief that utters these reproaches, and the steadfast heart of Maria is fearful of having sinned in yielding to it.  Another dread is soon to assail her.  Perhaps Francois Paradis was not able quite faithfully to keep the promises he made to her.  In the shanty, among rough and careless men, may he not have had moments of weakness; blasphemed or taken the names of the saints in vain, and thus have gone to his death with sin upon his conscience, under the weight of divine wrath.

Her parents had promised but a little ago that masses should be said.  How good they were!  Having guessed her secret how kindly had they been silent!  But she herself might help with prayers the poor soul in torment.  Her beads still lay upon the table; she takes them in her hands, and forthwith the words of the Ave mount to her lips,—­“Hail Mary, full of grace...”

Did you doubt of her, O mother of the Galilean?  Since that only eight days before she strove to reach your ear with her thousand prayers, and you but clothed yourself in divine impassivity while fate accomplished its purpose, think you that she questions your goodness or your power?  It would indeed have been to misjudge her.  As once she sought your aid for a man, so now she asks your pardon for a soul, in the same words, with the same humility and boundless faith.

“Blessed art Thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.”

But still she cowers by the great stove, and though the fire’s heat strikes through her, she ceases not to shudder as she thinks of the frozen world about her, of Paradis, who cannot be insentient, who must be so bitter cold in his bed of snow

CHAPTER XI

THE INTERPRETER OF GOD

One evening in February Samuel Chapdelaine said to his daughter:  “The roads are passable; if you wish it, Maria, we shall go to La Pipe on Sunday for the mass.”  “Very well, father;” but she replied in a voice so dejected, almost indifferent, that her parents exchanged glances behind her back.

Country folk do not die for love, nor spend the rest of their days nursing a wound.  They are too near to nature, and know too well the stern laws that rule their lives.  Thus it is perhaps, that they are sparing of high-sounding words; choosing to say “liking” rather than “loving ... .. ennui” rather than “grief,” that so the joys and sorrows of the heart may bear a fit proportion to those more anxious concerns of life which have to do with their daily toil, the yield of their lands, provision for the future.