“For this is it that we must abide in that Province where our fathers dwelt, living as they have lived, so to obey the unwritten command that once shaped itself in their hearts, that passed to ours, which we in turn must hand on to descendants innumerable:—­ In this land of Quebec naught shall die and naught shall suffer change ...”

The veil of gray cloud which hid-the whole heavens had become heavier and more louring, and suddenly the rain began afresh, bringing yet a little nearer that joyous hour when the earth would lie bare and the rivers be freed.  Samuel Chapdelaine slept profoundly, his head sunk upon his breast, an old man yielding at last to the long fatigues of his lifetime of toil.  Above the candlestick of metal and the glass bowl the candle flames wavered under gentle breaths from the window, and shadows flitting across the face of the dead woman made her lips seem to be moving in prayer or softly telling secrets.

Maria Chapdelaine awaked from her dream to the thought:—­” So I shall stay—­shall. stay here after all!” For the voices had spoken commandingly and she knew she could not choose but obey.  It was only then that the recollection of other duties came, after she had submitted, and a sigh had passed her lips.  Alma Rose was still a child; her mother dead, there must be a woman in the house.  But in truth it was the voices which had told her the way.

The rain was pattering on the roof, and nature, rejoicing that winter was past, sent soft little wandering airs through the casement as though she were sighing in content.  Throughout the hours of the night Maria moved not; with hands folded in her lap, patient of spirit and without bitterness, yet dreaming a little wistfully of the far-off wonders her eyes would never behold and of the land wherein she was bidden to live with its store of sorrowful memories; of the living flame which her heart had known awhile and lost forever, and the deep snowy woods whence too daring youths shall no more return.

CHAPTER XVI

PLEDGED TO THE RACE

Esdras and Da’Be came down from the shanties in May, and their grieving brought freshly to the household the pain of bereavement.  But the naked earth was lying ready for the seed, and mourning must not delay the season’s labours.

Eutrope Gagnon was there one evening to pay them a visit, and a glance he stole at Maria’s face perhaps told him of a change in her, for when, they were alone he put the question:—­” Maria, do you still think of going away?”

Her eyes were lowered, as with a motion of her head she signified “No.”

“Then ...  I know well that this is no time to speak of such things, but if only you could say there would be a chance for me one day, then could I bear the waiting better.”

And Maria answered him:—­“Yes ...  If you wish I will marry you as you asked me to ...  In the spring—­the spring after this spring now—­when the men come back from the woods for the sowing.”