Tit’Sebe cast his eyes about.  “A good house you have here; tightly made and warm.  Your father and the boys built it, did they not?  Moreover, you must have a good bit of land cleared by this time ...”

So loud was the wind that they did not hear the sound of sleigh-bells, and suddenly the door flew open against the wall and the cure of St. Henri entered, bearing the Host in his raised hands.  Maria and Tit’Sebe fell upon their knees; Tit’Be ran to shut the door, then also knelt.  The priest put off the heavy fur coat and the cap white with snow drawn down to his eyes, and instantly approached the sick-bed as heaven’s envoy bringing pardon and peace.

Ah! the assurance, the comfort of the divine promise which dispels the awful mists of death!  While the priest performed the sacred rites, and his low words mingled with the sighs of the dying woman, Samuel Chapdelaine and his children were praying with bended heads; in some sort consoled, released from anxiousness and doubt, confident that a sure pact was then concluding with the Almighty for the blue skies of Paradise spangled with stars of gold as a rightful heritage.

Afterwards the cure warmed himself by the stove; then they prayed together for a time, kneeling by the bed.

Toward four o’clock the wind leaped to the south-east, and the storm ended swiftly as a broken wave sinks backward from the shore; in the strange deep silence after the tumult the mother sighed, sighed once again, and died.

CHAPTER XV

THAT WE PERISH NOT

Ephrem Surprenant pushed open the door and stood upon the threshold.

“I have come.”  He found no other words, and waited there motionless for a few seconds, tongue-tied, while his eyes travelled from Chapdelaine to Maria, from Maria to the children who sat very still and quiet by the table; then he plucked off his cap hastily, as if in amends for his forgetfulness, shut the door behind him and moved across to the bed where the dead woman lay.

They had altered its place, turning the head to the wall and the foot toward the centre of the house, so that it might be approached on both sides.  Close to the wall two lighted candles stood on chairs; one of them set in a large candlestick of white metal which the visitors to the Chapdelaine home had never seen before, while for holding the other Maria had found nothing better than a glass bowl used in the summer time for blueberries and wild raspberries, on days of ceremony.

The candlestick shone, the bowl sparkled in the flames which lighted but feebly the face of the dead.  The days of suffering through which she had passed, or death’s final chill had given the features a strange pallor and delicacy, the refinement of a woman bred in the city.  Father and children were at first amazed, and then perceived in this the tremendous consequence of her translation beyond and far above them.