The little old place was very, very plain. Even the altar and the high altar had but few decorations at this time. There was a candle burning and it shed a pale glow. There was a basin of holy water, and she reverently made the sign of the cross with it. Then she knelt down on the floor and clasped her small hands.
“O holy God,” she prayed, “O Christ, son of the holy God, listen to my sorrow, I beseech thee. Send back Uncle Gaspard, for my life is so lonely without him. Keep him safe from all danger.”
It seemed so different to pray here. She would come every day now. This was God’s house.
It was strange and she did not understand it a bit, but her heart felt lighter. The old garden was gay with bloom. Chatte came to meet her, arched his back and waved his tail like a flag, looking at her out of green, translucent eyes with a black bar straight up and down. She stooped and patted him and he began to purr with delight. He was as fond as she of sitting in Uncle Gaspard’s lap.
Mère Lunde was pounding green grapes, great, luscious wild grapes, into a mash. Then she would strain out the seeds and make a most delicious jam with maple sugar. How fragrant the room was with the spicy scent! She went up and kissed her tenderly, and tears came to the woman’s eyes at the unexpected caress.
Wawataysee sat by the open window doing some beautiful beadwork. M. Marchand was busy sorting goods and piling them up on the shelves, and whistling soft and low like the wood thrush. Well, why should he not be happy, now that he had Wawataysee back? And she had been almost angry about it—no, not angry, but hurt, and—perhaps she was selfish. Ah, think of her grandfather being here and turning things about, making it dismal and wretched! No, he should not order the place and turn out these two who had been so kind. Perhaps the Governor would know what was right. She would pray it might never happen. That would be another petition. And without understanding how religion comforted, she was happier.
[CHAPTER XII—HER ANSWER]
It was strange how petitions grew. Renée used to walk gravely up to the old church—the door was never fastened—and slip in and say her prayer. Once a woman came who had lost her little baby.
“Oh,” she said, when they had exchanged sorrows, “I think thou wilt be comforted. Gaspard Denys has come back times before. Many of our husbands and brothers have returned. But my little baby cannot return. I may live many, many years and grow old, and in all that time I shall never see him!”
Yes, that was a great sorrow, and a long waiting.