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.

Maria did not for a moment dream that life for her was over, or that
the world must henceforward be a sad wilderness, because Francis
Paradis would not return in the spring nor ever again. But her heart
was aching, and while sorrow possessed it the future held no promise
for her.

When Sunday arrived, father and daughter early began to make ready
for the two hours' journey which would bring them to St. Henri de
Taillon, and the church. Before half-past seven Charles Eugene was
harnessed, and Maria, still wearing a heavy winter cloak, had
carefully deposited in her purse the list of her mother's