CHAPTER XIV.
INTO THE DEEP SILENCE There came an evening in April when Madame Chapdelaine would not take her place at the supper table with the others.
"There are pains through my body and I have no appetite," she said, "I must have strained myself to-day lifting a bag of flour when I was making bread.

Now something catches me in the back, and I am not hungry." No one answered her.

Those living sheltered lives take quick alarm when the mechanism of one of their number goes wrong, but people who wrestle with the earth for a living feel little surprise if their labours are too much for them now and then, and the body gives way in some fibre.
While father and children supped, Madame Chapdelaine sat very still in her chair beside the stove.

She drew her breath hard, and her broad face was working.
"I am going to bed," she said presently.

"A good night's sleep, and to-morrow morning I shall be all right again; have no doubt of that.
You will see to the baking, Maria." And indeed in the morning she was up at her usual hour, but when she had made the batter for the pancakes pain overcame her, and she had to lie down again.