The rosary lay still in the long fingers. Maria did not sing with
the others; but she was listening, and this lament of a love that
was unhappy fell very sweetly and movingly on her spirit a little
weary with prayer.

... Tu as le coeur a rire,
Moi je l'ai a pleurer,
J'ai perdu ma maitresse
Sans pouvoir la r'trouver,
Pour un bouquet de roses
Que je lui refusai
Il y a longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai.

Maria looked through the window at the white fields circled by
mysterious forest; the passion of religious feeling, the tide of
young love rising within her, the sound of the familiar voices,
fused in her heart to a single emotion. Truly the world was filled
with love that evening, with love human and divine, simple in nature
and mighty in strength, one and the other most natural and right; so
intermingled that the beseeching of heavenly favour upon dear ones
was scarcely more than the expression of an earthly affection, while
the artless love songs were chanted with solemnity of voice and
exaltation of spirit fit for addresses to another world.

.. Je voudrais que la rose
Fut encore au rosier,
Et que le rosier meme
A la mer fut jete.