“This young fellow from the States was ready with fine speeches, but you must not be carried away by them ...”  He caught a hint of dissent and changed his tone.

“Of course you are quite free to choose, and I have not a word to say against him.  But you would be happier here, Maria, amongst people like yourself.”

Through the falling snow Maria gazed at the rude structure of planks, between stable and barn, which her father and brother had thrown together five years before; unsightly and squalid enough it appeared, now that her fancy had begun to conjure up the stately buildings of the town.  Close and ill-smelling, the floor littered with manure and foul straw, the pump in one comer that was so hard to work and set the teeth on edge with its grinding; the weather-beaten outside, buffeted by wind and never-ending snow—­sign and symbol of what awaited her were she to marry one like Eutrope Gagnon, and accept as her lot a lifetime of rude toil in this sad and desolate land ...  She shook her head.

“I cannot answer, Eutrope, either yes or no; not just now.  I have given no promise.  You must wait.”

It was more than she had said to Lorenzo Surprenant, and yet Lorenzo had gone away with hope in his heart, while Eutrope felt that he had made his throw and lost.  Departing alone, the snow soon hid him.  She entered the house.

* * * * * * *

March dragged through its melancholy days; cold winds drove the gray clouds back and forth across the sky, and swept the snow hither and thither; one must needs consult the calendar of the Roberval grain merchant to get an inkling that spring was drawing near.

Succeeding days were to Maria like those that had gone before, each one bringing its familiar duties and the same routine; but the evenings were different, and were filled with pathetic strivings to think.  Beyond doubt her parents had guessed the truth; but they were unwilling to force her reserve with their advice, nor did she seek it.  She knew that it rested with her alone to make a choice, to settle the future course of her life, and she, felt like a child at school, standing on a platform before watchful eyes, bidden to find by herself the answer to some knotty question.

And this was her problem:  when a girl is grown to womanhood, when she is good-looking, healthy and strong, clever in all that pertains to the household and the farm, young men come and ask her to marry, and she must say “Yes” to this one and “No” to another.

If only Francois Paradis had not vanished forever in the great lonely woods, all were then so plain.  No need to ask herself what she ought to do; she would have gone straight to him, guided by a wise instinct that she might not gainsay, sure of doing what was right as a child that obeys a command.  But Francois was gone; neither in the promised springtime nor ever again to return, and the cure of St. Henri forbade regrets that would prolong the awaiting.