“This is nicer than our house,” thought Maria to herself.  Nazaire Larouche kept directing attention to his wants with dark sayings:—­ “Was your pig very lean?” he demanded; or perhaps:—­“Fond of maple sugar, are you?  I never get enough of it ...”

And then Azalma would help him to a second slice of pork or fetch the cake of maple sugar from the cupboard.  When she wearied of these strange table-manners and bade him help himself in the usual fashion, he smoothed her ruffled temper with good-humoured excuses, “Quite right.  Quite right.  I won’t do it again; but you always loved a joke, Azalma.  When you have youngsters like me at dinner you must look for a little nonsense.”

Maria smiled to think how like he was to her father; both tall and broad, with grizzled hair, their faces tanned to the colour of leather, and, shining from their eyes, the quenchless spirit of youth which keeps alive in the countryman of Quebec his imperishable simple-heartedness.

They took the road almost as soon as the meal was over.  The snow, thawed on top by the early rains, and frozen anew during the cold nights, gave an icy surface that slipped away easily beneath the runners.  The high blue hills on the other side of Lake St. John which closed the horizon behind them were gradually lost to view as they returned up the long bend of the river.

Passing the church, Samuel Chapdelaine said thoughtfully—­“The mass is beautiful.  I am often very sorry that we live so far from churches.  Perhaps not being able to attend to our religion every Sunday hinders us from being just so fortunate as other people.”

“It is not our fault,” sighed Maria, “we are too far away.”

Her father shook his head regretfully.  The imposing ceremonial, the Latin chants, the lighted tapers, the solemnity of the Sunday mass never failed to fill Urn with exaltation.  In a little he began to sing:—­

    J’irai la voir un jour,
    M’asseoir pres de son trone,
    Recevoir ma couronne
    Et regner a mon tour ...

His voice was strong and true, and he used the full volume of it, singing with deep fervour; but ere long his eyes began to close and his chin to drop toward his breast.  Driving always made him sleepy, and the horse, aware that the usual drowsiness had possession of his master, slackened his pace and at length fell to a walk.

“Get up there, Charles Eugene!”

He had suddenly waked and put his hand out for the whip.  Charles Eugene resigned himself and began to trot again.  Many generations ago a Chapdelaine cherished a long feud with a neighbour who bore these names, and had forthwith bestowed them upon an old, tired, lame horse of his, that he might give himself the pleasure every day when passing the enemy’s house of calling out very loudly:—­ “Charles Eugene, ill-favoured beast that you are!  Wretched, badly brought up creature!  Get along, Charles Eugene!” For a whole century the quarrel was dead and buried; but the Chapdelaines ever since had named their successive horses Charles Eugene.