"Yes, _from the age of three I have never refused our Good God

anything._ Still I cannot glorify myself. See how this evening the

tree-tops are gilded by the setting sun. So likewise my soul

appears to you all shining and golden because it is exposed to the

rays of Love. But should the Divine Sun no longer shine thereon,

it would instantly be sunk in gloom."

"We too would like to become all golden--what must we do?"

"You must practise the little virtues. This is sometimes

difficult, but God never refuses the first grace--courage for

self-conquest; and if the soul correspond to that grace, she at

once finds herself in God's sunlight. The praise given to Judith

has always struck me: 'Thou hast done manfully, and thy heart has

been strengthened.'[4] In the onset we must act with courage. By

this means the heart gains strength, and victory follows victory."

* * * * * *

In conformity with the Rule, Soeur Thérèse never raised her eyes

in the refectory, and, as I found great difficulty in this

observance, she composed for me the following prayer. It reveals

her exceeding humility, because in it she asked a grace of which I

alone stood in need:

"O Jesus, in honour and in imitation of the example Thou gavest in

the house of Herod, Thy two little Spouses resolve to keep their

eyes cast down in the refectory. When that impious king scoffed at

Thee, O Infinite Beauty, no complaint came from Thy Lips. Thou

didst not even deign to fix on him Thy Adorable Eyes. He was not

worthy of the favour, but we who are Thy Spouses, we desire to

draw Thy Divine Gaze upon ourselves. As often as we refrain from

raising our eyes, we beg Thee to reward us by a glance of love,

and we even dare ask Thee not to refuse this sweet glance when we

fail in our self-control, for we will humble ourselves most

sincerely before Thee."

* * * * * *

I confided to her that I made no progress, and that consequently I

had lost heart.

"Up to the age of fourteen," she said, "I practised virtue without

tasting its sweetness. I desired suffering, but I did not think of

making it my joy; that grace was vouchsafed me later. My soul was

like a beautiful tree the flowers of which had scarcely opened

when they fell.

"Offer to God the sacrifice of never gathering any fruit. If He

will that throughout your whole life you should feel a repugnance

to suffering and humiliation--if He permit that all the flowers of

your desires and of your good will should fall to the ground

without any fruit appearing, do not worry. At the hour of death,

in the twinkling of an eye, He will cause fair fruits to ripen on

the tree of your soul.

"We read in the Book of Ecclesiasticus: 'There is an inactive man

that wanteth help, is very weak in ability, and full of poverty:

yet the Eye of God hath looked upon him for good, and hath lifted

him up from his low estate, and hath exalted his head: and many

have wondered at him, and have glorified God. . . . Trust in God,

and stay in thy place. For it is easy in the Eyes of God, on a

sudden, to make the poor man rich. The blessing of God maketh

haste to reward the just, and in a swift hour His blessing beareth

fruit.'"[5]

"But if I fall, I shall always be found imperfect; whereas you are

looked upon as holy."

"That is, perhaps, because I have never desired to be considered

so. . . . But that you should be found imperfect is just what is

best. Here is your harvest. To believe oneself imperfect and

others perfect--this is true happiness. Should earthly creatures

think you devoid of holiness, they rob you of nothing, and you are

none the poorer: it is they who lose. For is there anything more

sweet than the inward joy of thinking well of our neighbour?

"As for myself I am glad and rejoice, not only when I am looked

upon as imperfect, but above all when I feel that it is true.

Compliments, on the contrary, do but displease me."

* * * * * *

"God has a special love for you since He entrusts souls to your

care."

"That makes no difference, and I am really only what I am in His

Eyes. It is not because He wills me to be His interpreter among

you, that He loves me more; rather, He makes me your little

handmaid. It is for you, and not for myself, that He has bestowed

upon me those charms and those virtues which you see.

"I often compare myself to a little bowl filled by God with good

things. All the kittens come to eat from it, and they sometimes

quarrel as to which will have the largest share. But the Holy

Child Jesus keeps a sharp watch. 'I am willing you should feed

from My little bowl,' He says, 'but take heed lest you upset and

break it.'

"In truth there is no great danger, because I am already on the

ground. Not so with Prioresses; set, as they are, on tables, they

run far more risks. Honours are always dangerous. What poisonous

food is served daily to those in high positions! What deadly fumes

of incense! A soul must be well detached from herself to pass

unscathed through it all."

* * * * * *

"It is a consolation for you to do good and to procure the Glory

of God. I wish I were equally favoured."

"What if God does make use of me, rather than of another, to

procure His Glory! Provided His Kingdom be established among

souls, the instrument matters not. Besides, He has no need of

anyone.

"Some time ago I was watching the flicker, almost invisible, of a

tiny night-light, when one of the Sisters drew near, and, lighting

her candle in the dying flame, passed it round to light all those

of the Community. 'Who dare glory in his own good works?' I

reflected. 'From one faint spark such as this, it would be

possible to set the whole earth on fire.' We often think we

receive graces and are divinely illumined by means of brilliant

candles. But from whence comes their light? From the prayers,

perhaps, of some humble, hidden soul, whose inward shining is not

apparent to human eyes; a soul of unrecognised virtue and, in her

own sight, of little value--a dying flame.

"What mysteries will yet be unveiled to us! I have often thought

that perhaps I owe all the graces with which I am laden, to some

little soul whom I shall know only in Heaven.

"It is God's Will that in this world souls shall dispense to each

other, by prayer, the treasures of Heaven, in order that when they

reach their Everlasting Home they may love one another with

grateful hearts, and with an affection far in excess of that which

reigns in the most perfect family on earth.

"There no looks of indifference will meet us, because all the

Saints will be mutually indebted to each other. No envious glances

will be cast, for the happiness of each one of the Blessed will be

the happiness of all. With the Doctors of the Church we shall be

like unto Doctors; with the Martyrs, like unto Martyrs; with the

Virgins, like unto Virgins; and just as the members of one family

are proud one of the other, so without the least jealousy shall we

take pride in our brothers and sisters.

"When we see the glory of the great Saints, and know that through

the secret working of Providence we have contributed to it, who

knows whether the joy we shall feel will not be as intense,

perhaps sweeter, than the happiness they themselves possess?

"And do you not think that the great Saints, on their side, seeing

what they owe to all little souls, will love them with a love

beyond compare? The friendships of Paradise will be both sweet and

full of surprise, of this I am certain. The familiar friend of an

Apostle, or of a great Doctor of the Church, may be a shepherd

boy, and a simple little child may be united in closest intimacy

with a Patriarch. . . . I long to enter that Kingdom of Love!"

* * * * * *

"Believe me, the writing of pious books, the composing of the

sublimest poetry, all that does not equal the smallest act of

self-denial. When, however, our inability to do good gives us

pain, our only resource is to offer up the good works of others,

and in this lies the benefit of the Communion of Saints. Recall to

mind that beautiful verse of the canticle of our Father, St. John

of the Cross:

'Return, my dove! See on the height The wounded Hart, To whom

refreshment brings The breeze, stirred by thy wings.'

"Thus the Spouse, the wounded Hart, is not attracted by the

height, but only by the breeze from the pinions of the dove--a

breeze which one single stroke of wing is sufficient to create."

* * * * * *

"The one thing which is not open to envy is the lowest place. Here

alone, therefore, there is neither vanity nor affliction of

spirit. Yet, 'the way of a man is not his own,'[6] and sometimes

we find ourselves wishing for what dazzles. In that hour let us in

all humility take our place among the imperfect, and look upon

ourselves as little souls who at every instant need to be upheld

by the goodness of God. From the moment He sees us fully convinced

of our nothingness, and hears us cry out: 'My foot stumbles, Lord,

but Thy Mercy is my strength,'[7] He reaches out His Hand to us.

But, should we attempt great things, even under pretext of zeal,

He deserts us. It suffices, therefore, to humble ourselves, to

bear with meekness our imperfections. Herein lies--for us--true

holiness."

* * * * * *

One day I was complaining of being more tired than my Sisters,

for, besides the ordinary duties, I had other work unknown to the

rest. Soeur Thérèse replied:

"I should like always to see you a brave soldier, never grumblng

at hardships, but considering the wounds of your companions as

most serious, and your own as mere scratches. You feel this

fatigue so much because no one is aware of it.

"Now the Blessed Margaret Mary, at the time she had two whitlows,

confessed that she really suffered from the hidden one only. The

other, which she was unable to hide, excited her Sisters' pity and

made her an object of compassion. This is indeed a very natural

feeling, the desire that people should know of our aches and

pains, but in giving way to it we play the coward."

* * * * * *

"When we are guilty of a fault we must never attribute it to some

physical cause, such as illness or the weather. We must ascribe it

to our own imperfections, without being discouraged thereby.

'Occasions do not make a man frail, but show what he is.'"[8]

* * * * * *

"God did not permit that our Mother should tell me to write my

poems as soon as I had composed them, and, fearful of committing a

sin against poverty, I would not ask leave. I had therefore to

wait for some free time, and at eight o'clock in the evening I

often found it extremely difficult to remember what I had composed

in the morning.

"True, these trifles are a species of martyrdom; but we must be

careful not to alleviate the pain of the martyrdom by permitting

ourselves, or securing permission for, a thousand and one things

which would tend to make the religious life both comfortable and

agreeable."

* * * * * *

One day, as I was in tears, Soeur Thérèse told me to avoid the

habit of allowing others to see the trifles that worried me,

adding that nothing made community life more trying than

unevenness of temper.

"You are indeed right," I answered, "such was my own thought.

Henceforward my tears will be for God alone. I shall confide my

worries to One Who will understand and console me."

"Tears for God!" she promptly replied, "that must not be. Far less

to Him than to creatures ought you to show a mournful face. Our

Divine Master has only our monasteries where He may obtain some

solace for His Heart. He comes to us in search of rest--to forget

the unceasing complaints of His friends in the world, who, instead

of appreciating the value of the Cross, receive it far more often

with moans and tears. Would you then be as the mediocre souls?

Frankly, this is not disinterested love. . . . _It is for us to

console our Lord, and not for Him to console us._ His Heart is so

tender that if you cry He will dry your tears; but thereafter He

will go away sad, since you did not suffer Him to repose

tranquilly within you. Our Lord loves the glad of heart, the

children that greet Him with a smile. When will you learn to hide

your troubles from Him, or to tell Him gaily that you are happy to

suffer for Him?"

"The face is the mirror of the soul," she said once, "and yours,

like that of a contented little child, should always be calm and

serene. Even when alone, be cheerful, remembering always that you

are in the sight of the Angels."

* * * * * *

I was anxious she should congratulate me on what, in my eyes, was

an heroic act of virtue; but she said to me:

"Compare this little act of virtue with what our Lord has the

right to expect of you! Rather should you humble yourself for

having lost so many opportunities of proving your love."

Little satisfied with this answer, I awaited an opportunity of

finding out how Soeur Thérèse herself would act under trial, and

the occasion was not long in coming. Reverend Mother asked us to

do some extremely tiring work which bristled with difficulties,

and, on purpose, I made it still more difficult for our Mistress.

Not for one second, however, could I detect her in fault, and,

heedless of the fatigue involved, she remained gracious and

amiable, eager throughout to help others at her own expense. At

last I could resist no longer, and I confessed to her what my

thoughts had been.

"How comes it," I said, "that you can be so patient? You are ever

the same--calm and full of joy." "It was not always the case with

me," she replied, "but since I have abandoned all thought of

self-seeking, I live the happiest life possible."

* * * * * *

Our dear Mistress used to say that during recreation, more than at

any other time, we should find opportunities for practising virtue.

"If your desire be to draw great profit, do not go with the idea

of procuring relaxation, but rather with the intention of

entertaining others and practising complete detachment from self.

Thus, for instance, if you are telling one of the Sisters

something you think entertaining, and she should interrupt to tell

you something else, show yourself interested, even though in

reality her story may not interest you in the least. Be careful,

also, not to try to resume what you were saying. In this way you

will leave recreation filled with a great interior peace and

endowed with fresh strength for the practice of virtue, because

you have not sought to please yourself, but others. If only we

could realise what we gain by self-denial in all things!"

"You realise it, certainly, for you have always practised

self-denial."

"Yes, I have forgotten myself, and I have tried not to see myself

in anything."

* * * * * *

"When some one knocks at our door, or when we are rung for, we

must practise mortification and refrain from doing even another

stitch before answering. I have practised this myself, and I

assure you that it is a source of peace."

After this advice, and according as occasion offered, I promptly

answered every summons. One day, during her illness, she was

witness of this, and said:

"At the hour of death you will be very happy to find this to your

account. You have just done something more glorious than if,

through clever diplomacy, you had procured the good-will of the

Government for all religious communities and had been proclaimed

throughout France as a second Judith."

* * * * * *

Questioned as to her method of sanctifying meals, she answered:

"In the refectory we have but one thing to do: perform a lowly

action with lofty thoughts. I confess that the sweetest

aspirations of love often come to me in the refectory. Sometimes I

am brought to a standstill by the thought that were Our Lord in my

place He would certainly partake of those same dishes which are

served to me. It is quite probable that during His lifetime He

tasted of similar food--He must have eaten bread and fruit.

"Here are my little rubrics:

"I imagine myself at Nazareth, in the house of the Holy Family.

If, for instance, I am served with salad, cold fish, wine, or

anything pungent in taste, I offer it to St. Joseph. To our

Blessed Lady I offer hot foods and ripe fruit, and to the Infant

Jesus our feast-day fare, especially rice and preserves. Lastly,

when I am served a wretched dinner I say cheerfully: 'To-day, my

little one, it is all for you!'"

Thus in many pretty ways she hid her mortifications. One fast-day,

however, when our Reverend Mother ordered her some special food, I

found her seasoning it with wormwood because it was too much to

her taste. On another occasion I saw her drinking very slowly a

most unpleasant medicine. "Make haste," I said, "drink it off at

once!" "Oh, no!" she answered; "must I not profit of these small

opportunities for penance since the greater ones are forbidden me?"

Toward the end of her life I learned that, during her noviciate,

one of our Sisters, when fastening the scapular for her, ran the

large pin through her shoulder, and for hours she bore the pain

with joy. On another occasion she gave me proof of her interior

mortification. I had received a most interesting letter which was

read aloud at recreation, during her absence. In the evening she

expressed the wish to read it, and I gave it to her. Later on,

when she returned it, I begged her to tell me what she thought of

one of the points of the letter which I knew ought to have charmed

her. She seemed rather confused, and after a pause she answered:

"God asked of me the sacrifice of this letter because of the

eagerness I displayed the other day . . . so I have not read it."

* * * * * *

When speaking to her of the mortifications of the Saints, she

remarked: "It was well that Our Lord warned us: 'In My Father's

House there are many mansions, otherwise I would have told

you.'[9] For, if every soul called to perfection were obliged to

perform these austerities in order to enter Heaven, He would have

told us, and we should have willingly undertaken them. But He has

declared that, 'there are many mansions in His House.' If there

are some for great souls, for the Fathers of the Desert and for

Martyrs of penance, there must also be one for little children.

And in that one a place is kept for us, if we but love Him dearly

together with Our Father and the Spirit of Love."

* * * * * *

"While in the world, I used, on waking, to think of all the

pleasant or unpleasant things which might happen throughout the

day, and if I foresaw nothing but worries I got up with a heavy

heart. Now it is quite the reverse. I think of the pains and of

the sufferings awaiting me, and I rise, feeling all the more

courageous and light of heart in proportion to the opportunities I

foresee of proving my love for Our Lord, and of gaining--mother of

souls as I am--my children's livelihood. Then I kiss my crucifix,

and, laying it gently on my pillow, I leave it there while I

dress, and I say: 'My Jesus, Thou hast toiled and wept enough

during Thy three-and-thirty years on this miserable earth. Rest

Thee, to-day! It is my turn to suffer and to fight.'"

* * * * * *

One washing-day I was sauntering towards the laundry, and looking

at the flowers as I passed. Soeur Thérèse was following, and

quickly overtook me: "Is that," she said quietly, "how people

hurry themselves when they have children, and are obliged to work

to procure them food?"

* * * * * *

"Do you know which are my Sundays and feast-days? They are the

days on which God tries me the most."

* * * * * *

I was distressed at my want of courage, and Soeur Thérèse said to

me: "You are complaining of what should be your greatest

happiness. If you fought only when you felt eagerness, where would

be your merit? What does it matter, even if you are devoid of

courage, provided you act as though you possessed it? If you feel

too lazy to pick up a bit of thread, and yet do so for love of

Jesus, you acquire more merit than for a much nobler action done

in a moment of fervour. Instead of grieving, be glad that, by

allowing you to feel your own weakness, Our Lord is furnishing you

with an opportunity of saving a greater number of souls."

* * * * * *

I asked her whether Our Lord were not displeased at the sight of

my many failings. This was her answer: "Be comforted, for He Whom

you have chosen as your Spouse has every imaginable perfection;

but--dare I say it?--He has one great infirmity too--He is blind!

And there is a science about which He knows nothing--addition!

These two great defects, much to be deplored in an earthly

bridegroom, do but make ours infinitely more lovable. Were it

necessary that He should be clear-sighted, and familiar with the

science of figures, do you not think that, confronted with our

many sins, He would send us back to our nothingness? But His Love

for us makes him actually blind.

"If the greatest sinner on earth should repent at the moment of

his death, and draw His last breath in an act of love, neither the

many graces he had abused, nor the multiplied crimes he had

committed, would stand in his way. Our Lord would see nothing,

count nothing, but the sinner's last prayer, and without delay He

would receive him into the arms of His Mercy.

"But, to make Him thus blind and to prevent Him doing the smallest

sum of addition, we must approach Him through His Heart--on that

side He is vulnerable and defenceless."

* * * * * *

I had grieved her, and had gone to ask her pardon: "If you but

knew what I feel!" she exclaimed. "Never have I more clearly

understood the love with which Jesus receives us when we seek His

forgiveness. If I, His poor little creature, feel so tenderly

towards you when you come back to me, what must pass through Our

Lord's Divine Heart when we return to Him? Far more quickly than I

have just done will He blot out our sins from His memory. . . .

Nay, He will even love us more tenderly than before we fell."

* * * * * *

I had an immense dread of the judgments of God, and no argument of

Soeur Thérèse could remove it. One day I put to her the following

objection: "It is often said to us that in God's sight the angels

themselves are not pure. How, therefore, can you expect me to be

otherwise than filled with fear?"

She replied: "There is but one means of compelling God not to

judge us, and it is--to appear before Him empty-handed." "And how

can that be done?" "It is quite simple: lay nothing by, spend your

treasures as you gain them. Were I to live to be eighty, I should

always be poor, because I cannot economise. All my earnings are

immediately spent on the ransom of souls.

"Were I to await the hour of death to offer my trifling coins for

valuation, Our Lord would not fail to discover in them some base

metal, and they would certainly have to be refined in Purgatory.

Is it not recorded of certain great Saints that, on appearing

before the Tribunal of God, their hands laden with merit, they

have yet been sent to that place of expiation, because in God's

Eyes all our justice is unclean?"

"But," I replied, "if God does not judge our good actions, He will

judge our bad ones." "Do not say that! Our Lord is Justice itself,

and if He does not judge our good actions, neither will He judge

our bad ones. It seems to me, that for Victims of Love there will

be no judgment. God will rather hasten to reward with eternal

delights His own Love which He will behold burning in their

hearts."

"To enjoy such a privilege, would it suffice to repeat that Act of

Oblation which you have composed?" "Oh, no! words do not suffice.

To be a true Victim of Love we must surrender ourselves entirely.

. . . _Love will consume us only in the measure of our

self-surrender."_

* * * * * *

I was grieving bitterly over a fault I had committed. "Take your

Crucifix," she said, "and kiss it." I kissed the Feet.

"Is that how a child kisses its father? Throw your arms at once

round His Neck and kiss His Face." When I had done so, she

continued: "That is not sufficient--He must return your caress." I

had to press the Crucifix to both my cheeks, whereupon she added:

"Now, all is forgiven."

* * * * * *

I told her one day that if I must be reproached I preferred

deserving it to being unjustly accused. "For my part," she

replied, "I prefer to be charged unjustly, because, having nothing

to reproach myself with, I offer gladly this little injustice to

God. Then, humbling myself, I think how easily I might have

deserved the reproach. The more you advance, the fewer the

combats; or rather, the more easy the victory, because the good

side of things will be more visible. Then your soul will soar

above creatures. As for me, I feel utterly indifferent to all

accusations because I have learned the hollowness of human

judgment."

She added further: "When misunderstood and judged unfavourably,

what benefit do we derive from defending ourselves? Leave things

as they are, and say nothing. It is so sweet to allow ourselves to

be judged anyhow, rightly or wrongly.

"It is not written in the Gospel that Saint Mary Magdalen put

forth excuses when charged by her sister with sitting idle at Our

Lord's Feet. She did not say: 'Martha, if you knew the happiness

that is mine and if you heard the words that I hear, you too would

leave everything to share my joy and my repose.' No, she preferred

to keep silent. . . . Blessed silence which giveth such peace to

the soul!"

* * * * * *

At a moment of temptation and struggle I received this note: "'The

just man shall correct me in mercy and shall reprove me; but let

not the oil of the sinner perfume my head.'[10] It is only by the

just that I can be either reproved or corrected, because all my

Sisters are pleasing to God. It is less bitter to be rebuked by a

sinner than by a just man; but through compassion for sinners, to

obtain their conversion, I beseech Thee, O my God, to permit that

I may be well rebuked by those just souls who surround me. I ask

also that the _oil of praise,_ so sweet to our nature, _may not

perfume my head,_ that is to say, my mind, by making me believe

that I possess virtues when I have merely performed a few good

actions.

"Jesus! 'Thy Name is as oil poured out,'[11] and it is into this

divine perfume that I desire wholly to plunge myself, far from the

gaze of mankind."

* * * * * *

"It is not playing the game to argue with a Sister that she is in

the wrong, even when it is true, because we are not answerable for

her conduct. We must not be _Justices of the peace,_ but _Angels

of peace_ only."

* * * * * *

"You give yourselves up too much to what you are doing," she used

to say to us; "you worry about the future as though it were in

your hands. Are you much concerned at this moment as to what is

happening in other Carmelite convents, and whether the nuns there

are busy or otherwise? Does their work prevent you praying or

meditating? Well, just in the same way, you ought to detach

yourselves from your own personal labours, conscientiously

spending on them the time prescribed, but with perfect freedom of

heart. We read that the Israelites, while building the walls of

Jerusalem, worked with one hand and held a sword in the other.[12]

This is an image of what we should do: avoid being wholly absorbed

in our work."

* * * * * *

"One Sunday," Thérèse relates, "I was going toward the chestnut

avenue, full of rejoicing, for it was spring-time, and I wanted to

enjoy nature's beauties. What a bitter disappointment! My dear

chestnuts had been pruned, and the branches, already covered with

buds, now lay on the ground. On seeing this havoc, and thinking

that three years must elapse before it could be repaired, my heart

felt very sore. But the grief did not last long. 'If I were in

another convent,' I reflected, 'what would it matter to me if the

chestnut-trees of the Carmel at Lisieux were entirely cut down?' I

will not worry about things that pass. God shall be my all. I will

take my walks in the wooded groves of His Love, whereon none dare

lay hands."

* * * * * *

A novice asked her Sisters to help her shake some blankets. As

they were somewhat liable to tear because of their worn condition,

she insisted, rather sharply, on their being handled with care.

"What would you do," said Thérèse to the impatient one, "if it

were not your duty to mend these blankets? There would be no

thought of self in the matter, and if you did call attention to

the fact that they are easily torn, it would be done in quite an

impersonal way. In all your actions, you should avoid the least

trace of self-seeking."

* * * * * *

Seeing one of our Sisters very much fatigued, I said to Soeur

Thérèse: "It grieves me to see people suffer, especially those who

are holy." She instantly replied: "I do not feel as you do. Saints

who suffer never excite my pity. I know they have strength to bear

their sufferings, and that through them they are giving great

glory to God. But I compassionate greatly those who are not

Saints, and who do not know how to profit by suffering. They

indeed awake my pity. I would strain every nerve to help and

comfort them."

* * * * * *

"Were I to live longer, it is the office of Infirmarian that would

most please me. I would not ask for it, but were it imposed

through obedience, I should consider myself highly favoured. I

think I should fulfill its duties with much affection, always

mindful of Our Lord's words: 'I was sick, and you visited Me.'[13]

The infirmary bell should be for you as heavenly music, and you

ought purposely to pass by the windows of the sick that it might

be easy for them to summon you. Consider yourself as a little

slave whom everyone has the right to command. Could you but see

the Angels who from the heights of Heaven watch your combats in

the arena! They are awaiting the end of the fight to crown you and

cover you with flowers. You know that we claim to rank as _little

Martyrs_ . . . . but we must win our palms.

"God does not despise these hidden struggles with ourselves, so

much richer in merit because they are unseen: 'The patient man is

better than the valiant, and he that ruleth his spirit than he

that taketh cities.'[14] Through our little acts of charity,

practised in the dark, as it were, we obtain the conversion of the

heathen, help the missionaries, and gain for them plentiful alms,

thus building both spiritual and material dwellings for Our

Eucharistic God."

* * * * * *

I had seen Mother Prioress showing, as I thought, more confidence

and affection to one of our Sisters than she extended to me.

Expecting to win sympathy, I told my trouble to Soeur Thérèse, and

great was my surprise when she put me the question: "Do you think

you love our Mother very much?" "Certainly! otherwise I should be

indifferent if others were preferred to me."

"Well, I shall prove that you are absolutely mistaken, and that it

is not our Mother that you love, but yourself. When we really love

others, we rejoice at their happiness, and we make every sacrifice

to procure it. Therefore if you had this true, disinterested

affection, and loved our Mother for her own sake, you would be

glad to see her find pleasure even at your expense; and since you

think she has less satisfaction in talking with you than with

another Sister, you ought not to grieve at being apparently

neglected."

* * * * * *

I was distressed at my many distractions during prayers: "I also

have many," she said, "but as soon as I am aware of them, I pray

for those people the thought of whom is diverting my attention,

and in this way they reap benefit from my distractions. . . . I

accept all for the love of God, even the wildest fancies that

cross my mind."

* * * * * *

I was regretting a pin which I had been asked for, and which I had

found most useful. "How rich you are," said Thérèse, "you will

never be happy!"

* * * * * *

The grotto of the Holy Child was in her charge, and, knowing that

one of our Mothers greatly disliked perfumes, she never put any

sweet-smelling flowers there, not even a tiny violet. This cost

her many a real sacrifice. One day, just as she had placed a

beautiful artificial rose at the foot of the statue, the Mother

called her. Soeur Thérèse, surmising that it was to bid her remove

the rose, was anxious to spare her any humiliation. She therefore

took the flower to the good Sister, and, forestalling all

observations, said: "Look, Mother, how well nature is imitated

nowadays: would you not think this rose had been freshly gathered

from the garden?"

* * * * * *

"There are moments," she told us, "when we are so miserable

within, that there is nothing for it but to get away from

ourselves. At those times God does not oblige us to remain at

home. He even permits our own company to become distasteful to us

in order that we may leave it. Now I know no other means of exit

save through the doorway of charitable works, on a visit to Jesus

and Mary."

* * * * * *

"When I picture the Holy Family, the thought that does me most

good is--the simplicity of their home-life. Our Lady and St.

Joseph were well aware that Jesus was God, while at the same time

great wonders were hidden from them, and--like us--they lived by

faith. You have heard those words of the Gospel: 'They understood

not the word that He spoke unto them';[15] and those others no

less mysterious: 'His Father and Mother were wondering at those

things which were spoken concerning Him.'[16] They seemed to be

learning something new, for this word 'wondering' implies a

certain amount of surprise."

* * * * * *

"There is a verse in the Divine Office which I recite each day

with reluctance: 'I have inclined my heart to do Thy

justifications for ever, because of the reward.'[17] I hasten to

add in my heart: 'My Jesus, Thou knowest I do not serve Thee for

sake of reward, but solely out of love, and a desire to win Thee

souls."

* * * * * *

"In Heaven only shall we be in possession of the clear truth. On

earth, even in matters of Holy Scripture, our vision is dim. It

distresses me to see the differences in its translations, and had

I been a Priest I would have learned Hebrew, so as to read the

Word of God as He deigned to utter it in human speech."

* * * * * *

Soeur Thérèse often spoke to me of a well-known toy with which she

had amused herself when a child. This was the kaleidoscope, shaped

like a small telescope, through which, as it is made to revolve,

one perceives an endless variety of pretty-coloured figures.

"This toy," she said, "excited my admiration, and I wondered what

could provide so charming a phenomenon, when one day, after a

lengthy examination, I found that it consisted simply of tiny bits

of paper and cloth scattered inside. A further examination

revealed that there were three mirrors inside the tube, and the

problem was solved. It became for me the illustration of a great

truth.

"So long as our actions, even the most trivial, remain within

Love's kaleidoscope, so long the Blessed Trinity, figured by the

three mirrors, imparts to them a wonderful brightness and beauty.

The eye-piece is Jesus Christ, and He, looking from outside

through Himself into the kaleidoscope, finds perfect all our

works. But, should we leave that ineffable abode of Love, He would

see but the rags and chaff of unclean and worthless deeds."

* * * * * *

I told Soeur Thérèse of the strange phenomena produced by

magnetism on persons who surrender their will to the hypnotiser.

It seemed to interest her greatly, and next day she said to me:

"Your conversation yesterday did me so much good! How I long to be

hypnotised by Our Lord! It was my waking thought, and verily it

was sweet to surrender Him my will. I want Him to take possession

of my faculties in such wise that my acts may no more be mine, or

human, but Divine--inspired and guided by the Spirit of Love."

* * * * * *

Before my profession I received through my saintly Novice-mistress

a very special grace. We had been washing all day. I was worn-out

with fatigue and harassed with spiritual worries. That night,

before meditation, I wanted to speak to her, but she dismissed me

with the remark: "That is the bell for meditation, and I have not

time to console you; besides, I see plainly that it would be

useless trouble. For the present, God wishes you to suffer alone."

I followed her to meditation so discouraged that, for the first

time, I doubted of my vocation. I should never be able to be a

Carmelite. The life was too hard.

I had been kneeling for some minutes, when all at once, in the

midst of this interior struggle--without having asked or even

wished for peace--I felt a sudden and extraordinary change of

soul. I no longer knew myself. My vocation appeared to me both

lovely and lovable. I saw the sweetness and priceless value of

suffering. All the privations and fatigues of the religious life

appeared to me infinitely preferable to worldly pleasures, and I

came away from my meditation completely transformed.

Next day I told my Mistress what had taken place, and, seeing she

was deeply touched, I begged to know the reason. "God is good,"

she exclaimed. "Last evening you inspired me with such profound

pity that I prayed incessantly for you at the beginning of

meditation. I besought Our Lord to bring you comfort, to change

your dispositions, and show you the value of suffering. He has

indeed heard my prayers."

* * * * * *

Being somewhat of a child in my ways, the Holy Child--to help me

in the practice of virtue--inspired me with the thought of amusing

myself with Him, and I chose the game of _ninepins._ I imagined

them of all sizes and colours, representing the souls I wished to

reach. The ball was--_love._

In December, 1896, the novices received, for the benefit of the

Foreign Missions, various trifles towards a Christmas tree, and at

the bottom of the box containing them was a _top_--a rare thing in

a Carmelite convent. My companions remarked: "What an ugly

thing!--of what use will it be?" But I, who knew the game, caught

hold of it, exclaiming: "Nay, what fun! it will spin a whole day

without stopping if it be well whipped"; and thereupon I spun it

around to their great surprise.

Soeur Thérèse was quietly watching us, and on Christmas night,

after midnight Mass, I found in our cell the famous top, with a

delightful letter addressed as follows:

_To My Beloved Little Spouse_

_Player of Ninepins on the Mountain of Carmel_

_Christmas Night, 1896._

MY BELOVED LITTLE SPOUSE,--I am well pleased with thee! All the

year round thou hast amused Me by playing at _ninepins._ I was so

overjoyed that the whole court of Angels was surprised and

charmed. Several little cherubs have asked me why I did not make

them children. Others wanted to know if the melody of their

instruments were not more pleasing to me than thy joyous laugh

when a ninepin fell at the stroke of thy love-ball. My answer to

them was, that they must not regret they are not children, since

one day they would play with thee in the meadows of Heaven. I told

them also that thy smiles were certainly more sweet to Me than

their harmonies, because these smiles were purchased by suffering

and forgetfulness of self.

And now, my cherished Spouse, it is my turn to ask something of

thee. Thou wilt not refuse Me--thou lovest Me too much. Let us

change the game. Ninepins amuse me greatly, but at present I

should like to play at spinning a top, and, if thou dost consent,

thou shalt be the top. I give thee one as a model. Thou seest that

it is ugly to look at, and would be kicked aside by whosoever did

not know the game. But at the sight of it a child would leap for

joy and shout: "What fun! it will spin a whole day without

stopping!"

Although thou too art not attractive, I--the little Jesus--love

thee, and beg of thee to keep always spinning to amuse Me. True,

it needs a whip to make a top spin. Then let thy Sisters supply

the whip, and be thou most grateful to those who shall make thee

turn fastest. When I shall have had plenty of fun, I will bring

thee to join Me here, and our games shall be full of unalloyed

delight.--Thy little Brother,

JESUS.

* * * * * *

I had the habit of constantly crying about the merest trifles, and

this was a source of great pain to Soeur Thérèse. One day a bright

idea occurred to her: taking a mussel-shell from her painting

table, and, holding my hands lest I should prevent her, she

gathered my tears in the shell, and soon they were turned into

merry laughter.

"There," she said, "from this onwards I permit you to cry as much

as you like on condition that it is into the shell!"

A week, however, before her death I spent a whole evening in tears

at the thought of her fast-approaching end. She knew it, and said:

"You have been crying. Was it into the shell?" I was unable to

tell an untruth, and my answer grieved her. "I am going to die,"

she continued, "and I shall not be at rest about you unless you

promise to follow faithfully my advice. I consider it of the

utmost importance for the good of your soul."

I promised what she asked, begging leave, however, as a favour, to

be allowed to cry at her death. "But," she answered, "why cry at

my death? Those tears will certainly be useless. You will be

bewailing my happiness! Still I have pity on your weakness, and

for the first few days you have leave to cry, though afterwards

you must again take up the shell."

It has cost me some heroic efforts, but I have been faithful. I

have kept the shell at hand, and each time the wish to cry

overcame me, I laid hold of the pitiless thing. However urgent the

tears, the trouble of passing it from one eye to the other so

distracted my thoughts, that before very long this ingenious

method entirely cured me of my sensibility.

* * * * * *

Owing to a fault which had caused Soeur Thérèse much pain, but of

which I had deeply repented, I intended to deprive myself of Holy

Communion. I wrote to her of my resolution, and this was her

reply: "Little flower, most dear to Jesus, by this humiliation

your roots are feeding upon the earth. You must now open wide your

petals, or rather lift high your head, so that the Manna of the

Angels may, like a divine dew, come down to strengthen you and

supply all your wants. Good-night, poor little flower! Ask of

Jesus that all the prayers offered for my cure may serve to

increase the fire which ought to consume me."

* * * * * *

"At the moment of Communion I sometimes liken my soul to that of a

little child of three or four, whose hair has been ruffled and

clothes soiled at play. This is a picture of what befalls me in my

struggling with souls. But Our Blessed Lady comes promptly to the

rescue, takes off _my soiled pinafore,_ and arranges my hair,

adorning it with a pretty ribbon or a simple flower. . . . Then I

am quite nice, and able, without any shame, to seat myself at the

Banquet of Angels."

* * * * * *

In the infirmary we scarcely waited for the end of her

thanksgiving before seeking her advice. At first, this somewhat

distressed her, and she would make gentle reproaches, but soon she

yielded to us, saying: "I must not wish for more rest than Our

Lord. When He withdrew into the desert after preaching, the crowds

would come and intrude upon His solitude. Come, then, to me as

much as you like; I must die sword in hand--'the sword of the

Spirit, which is the Word of God.'"[18]

* * * * * *

"Advise us," we said to her, "how to profit by our spiritual

instructions." "Go for guidance with great simplicity, not

counting too much on help which may fail you at any moment. You

would then have to say with the Spouse in the Canticles: 'The

keepers took away my cloak and wounded me; when I had a little

passed by them, I found Him whom my soul loveth.'[19] If you ask

with humility and with detachment after your Beloved, the

_keepers_ will tell you. More often, you will find Jesus only when

you have passed by all creatures. Many times have I repeated this

verse of the Spiritual Canticle of St. John of the Cross:

'Messengers, I pray, no more Between us send, who know not how To

tell me what my spirit longs to know. For they Thy charms who

read--For ever telling of a thousand more--Make all my wounds to

bleed, While deeper then before Doth an--I know not what!--my

spirit grieve With stammerings vague, and of all life bereave.'"

* * * * * *

"If, supposing the impossible, God Himself could not see my good

actions, I would not be troubled. I love Him so much I would like

to give Him joy without His knowing who gave. When He sees the

gift being made, He is, as it were, obliged to make a

return. . . . I should wish to spare Him the trouble."

* * * * * *

"Had I been rich, I could never have seen a poor person hungry

without giving him to eat. This is my way also in the spiritual

life. There are many souls on the brink of hell, and as my

earnings come to hand they are scattered among these sinners. The

time has never yet been when I could say: 'Now I am going to work

for myself.'"

* * * * * *

"There are people who make the worst of everything. As for me, I

do just the contrary. I always see the good side of things, and

even if my portion be suffering, without a glimmer of solace,

well, I make it my joy."

* * * * * *

"Whatever has come from God's Hands has always pleased me, even

those things which have seemed to me less good and less beautiful

than the gifts made to others."

* * * * * *

"When staying with my aunt, while I was still a little girl, I was

given a certain book to read. In one of the stories great praise

was bestowed on a schoolmistress who by her tact escaped from

every difficulty without hurting anyone's feelings. Her method of

saying to one person: 'You are right,' and to another: 'You are

not wrong,' struck me particularly, and as I read I reflected that

I would not have acted in that way because we should always tell

the truth. And this I always do, though I grant it is much more

difficult. It would be far less trouble for us, when told of a

worry, to cast the blame on the absent. Less trouble . . .

nevertheless I do just the contrary, and if I am disliked it

cannot be helped. Let the novices not come to me if they do not

want to learn the truth."

* * * * * *

"Before a reproof[20] bear fruit it must cost something and be

free from the least trace of passion. Kindness must not degenerate

into weakness. When we have had good reason for finding fault, we

must leave it, and not allow ourselves to worry over having given

pain. To seek out the delinquent for the purpose of consoling her,

is to do more harm than good. Left alone, she is compelled to look

beyond creatures, and to turn to God; she is forced to see her

faults and to humble herself. Otherwise she would become

accustomed to expect consolation after a merited rebuke, and would

act like a spoilt child who stamps and screams, knowing well that

by this means its mother will be forced to return and dry its

tears."

* * * * * *

"'Let the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God, be ever

in your mouth and in your hearts.'[21] If we find any one

particular person disagreeable we should never be disheartened,

much less cease our endeavour to reform that soul. We should wield

_the sword of the Spirit,_ and so correct her faults. Things

should never be allowed to pass for the sake of our own ease. We

must carry on the war even when there is no hope of victory.

Success matters nothing, and we must fight on and never complain:

'I shall gain nothing from that soul, she does not understand,

there is nothing for it but to abandon her.' That would be the act

of a coward. We must do our duty to the very end."

* * * * * *

"Formerly, if any of my friends were in trouble, and I did not

succeed in consoling them when they came to see me, I left the

parlour quite heart-broken. Soon, however, Our Lord made me

understand how incapable I was of bringing comfort to a soul, and

from that day I no longer grieved when my visitors went away

downcast. I confided to God the sufferings of those so dear to me,

and I felt sure that He heard my prayer. At their next visit I

learned that I was not mistaken. After this experience, I no

longer worry when I have involuntarily given pain. . . . I simply

ask Our Lord to make amends."

* * * * * *

"What do you think of all the graces that have been heaped upon

you?"--"I think 'the Spirit of God breatheth where He will.'"[22]

* * * * * *

"Mother," she one day said to the Prioress, "were I unfaithful,

were I to commit even the smallest infidelity, I feel that my soul

would be plunged into the most terrible anguish, and I should be

unable to welcome death."

Mother Prioress evinced surprise at hearing her speak in this

strain, and she continued: "I am speaking of infidelity in the

matter of pride. If, for example, I were to say: 'I have acquired

such or such a virtue and I can practise it'; or again: 'My God,

Thou knowest I love Thee too much to dwell on one single thought

against faith,' straightway I should be assailed by the most

dangerous temptations and should certainly yield. To prevent this

misfortune I have but to say humbly and from my heart: 'My God, I

beseech Thee not to let me be unfaithful.'

"I understand clearly how St. Peter fell. He placed too much

reliance on his own ardent nature, instead of leaning solely on

the Divine strength. Had he only said: 'Lord, give me strength to

follow Thee unto death!' the grace would not have been refused him.

"How is it, Mother, that Our Lord, knowing what was about to

happen, did not say to him: 'Ask of Me the strength to do what is

in thy mind?' I think His purpose was to give us a twofold

lesson--first: that He taught His Apostles nothing by His presence

which He does not teach us through the inspirations of grace; and

secondly: that, having made choice of St. Peter to govern the

whole Church, wherein there are many sinners, He wished him to

test in himself what man can do without God's help. This is why

Jesus said to him before his fall: 'Thou being once converted

confirm thy brethren';[23] that is, 'Tell them the story of thy

sin--show them by thy own experience, how necessary it is for

salvation to rely solely upon Me.'"

* * * * * *

I was much afflicted at seeing her ill, and I often exclaimed:

"Life is so dreary!" "Life is not dreary"--she would immediately

say; "on the contrary, it is most gay. Now if you said: 'Exile is

dreary,' I could understand. It is a mistake to call 'life' that

which must have an end. Such a word should be only used of the

joys of Heaven--joys that are unfading--and in this true meaning

life is not sad but gay--most gay. . . ."

Her own gaiety was a thing of delight. For several days she had

been much better, and we were saying to her: "We do not yet know

of what disease you will die. . . ." "But," she answered, "I shall

die of death! Did not God tell Adam of what he would die when He

said to him: 'Thou shalt die of death'?"[24]

"Then death will come to fetch you?"--"No, not death, but the Good

God. Death is not, as pictures tell us, a phantom, a horrid

spectre. The Catechism says that it is the separation of soul and

body--no more! Well, I do not fear a separation which will unite

me for ever to God."

"Will the _Divine Thief,"_ some one asked, "soon come to steal His

little bunch of grapes?" "I see Him in the distance, and I take

good care not to cry out: 'Stop thief!' Rather, I call to Him:

'This way, this way!'"

* * * * * *

Asked under what name we should pray to her in Heaven, she

answered humbly: "Call me _Little Thérèse."_

* * * * * *

I was telling her that the most beautiful angels, all robed in

white, would bear her soul to Heaven: "Fancies like those," she

answered, "do not help me, and my soul can only feed upon truth.

God and His Angels are pure spirits. No human eye can see them as

they really are. That is why I have never asked extraordinary

favours. I prefer to await the Eternal Vision."

"To console me at your death I have asked God to send me a

beautiful dream."--"That is a thing I would never do . . . ask for

consolations. Since you wish to resemble me, you know what are my

ideas on this:

'Fear not, O Lord, that I shall waken Thee: I shall await in peace

the Heavenly Shore.'

"It is so sweet to serve God in the dark night and in the midst of

trial. After all, we have but this life in which to live by faith."

* * * * * *

"I am happy at the thought of going to Heaven, but when I reflect

on these words of Our Lord: 'I come quickly, and My reward is with

Me, to render to every man according to his works,'[25] I think

that He will find my case a puzzle: I have no works. . . . Well,

He will render unto me _according to His own works!"_

* * * * * *

"The chief plenary indulgence, which is within reach of everybody,

and can be gained without the ordinary conditions, is that of

charity--which 'covereth a multitude of sins.'"[26]

* * * * * *

"Surely you will not even pass through Purgatory. If such a thing

should happen, then certainly nobody goes straight to

Heaven."--"That gives me little thought. I shall be quite content

with the Merciful God's decision. Should I go to Purgatory, I

shall--like the three Hebrew children in the furnace--walk amid

the flames singing the Canticle of Love."

* * * * * *

"In Heaven you will be placed among the Seraphim." "If so, I shall

not imitate them. At the sight of God _they cover themselves with

their wings_[27]: I shall take good care not to hide myself with

mine."

* * * * * *

I showed her a picture which represented Joan of Arc being

comforted in prison by her Voices, and she remarked: "I also am

comforted by an interior voice. From above, the Saints encourage

me, saying: 'So long as thou art a captive in chains, thou canst

not fulfill thy mission, but later on, after thy death, will come

thy day of triumph.'"

* * * * * *

"In Heaven, God will do all I desire, because on earth I have

never done my own will."

* * * * * *

"You will look down upon us from Heaven, will you not?"--"No, I

will come down."

* * * * * *

Some months before the death of Soeur Thérèse, _The Life of St.

Aloysius_ was being read in the refectory, and one of the Mothers

was struck by the mutual and tender affection which existed

between the young Saint and the aged Jesuit, Father Corbinelli.

"You are little Aloysius," she said to Thérèse, "and I am old

Father Corbinelli--be mindful of me when you enter Heaven." "Would

you like me to fetch you thither soon, dear Mother?" "No, I have

not yet suffered enough." "Nay, Mother, I tell you that you have

suffered quite enough." To which Mother Hermance replied: "I dare

not say Yes. . . . In so grave a matter I must have the sanction

of authority." So the request was made to Mother Prioress, who,

without attaching much importance to it, gave her sanction.

Now, on one of the last days of her life, Soeur Thérèse, scarcely

able to speak owing to her great weakness, received through the

infirmarian a bouquet of flowers. It had been gathered by Mother

Hermance, and was accompanied by an entreaty for one word of

affection. The message: "Tell Mother Hermance of the Heart of

Jesus that during Mass this morning I saw Father Corbinelli's

grave close to that of little Aloysius."

"That is well," replied the good Mother, greatly touched; "tell

Soeur Thérèse that I have understood. . . ." And from that moment

she felt convinced her death was near. It took place just one year

later, and, according to the prediction of the "Little Aloysius,"

the two graves lie side by side.

* * * * * *

The last words penned by the hand of Soeur Thérèse were: "O Mary,

were I Queen of Heaven, and wert thou Thérèse, I should wish to be

Thérèse, that I might see thee Queen of Heaven!"

_____________________________

[1] Cf. Matt. 20:23.

[2] Cf. Ps. 67[68]:28.

[3] Cf. Prov. 1:4.

[4] Judith 15:11.

[5] Ecclus. 11:12, 13, 22, 23, 24.

[6] Jer. 10:23.

[7] Cf. Psalm 93[94]:18.

[8] _Imit.,_ I, xvi. 4.

[9] John 14:2.

[10] Cf. Psalm 111[112]:5.

[11] Cant. 1:2.

[12] Cf. 2 Esdras 4:17.

[13] Matt. 25:36.

[14] Prov. 16:32.

[15] Luke 2:50.

[16] Luke 2:33.

[17] Ps. 118[119]:112.

[18] Ephes. 6:17.

[19] Cf. Cant. 5:7, 3:4.

[20] In this and the following "counsel" it should be remembered

that it is a Novice-Mistress who is speaking. [Ed.]

[21] Cf. Ephes. 6:17; Isaias 61:21.

[22] Cf. John 3:8.

[23] Luke 22:32.

[24] Cf. Gen. 2:17. A play on the French: _Tu mourras de mort._

[Ed.]

[25] Apoc. 22:12.

[26] Prov. 10:12.

[27] Cf. Isaias 6:2.

_____________________________

LETTERS OF SOEUR THÉRÈSE

THE LITTLE FLOWER OF JESUS

_____________________________

LETTERS OF SOEUR THÉRÈSE TO HER SISTER CÉLINE

I

J.M.J.T.

May 8, 1888.

DEAREST CÉLINE,--There are moments when I wonder whether I am

really and truly in the Carmel; sometimes I can scarcely believe

it. What have I done for God that He should shower so many graces

upon me?

A whole month has passed since we parted; but why do I say parted?

Even were the wide ocean between us, our souls would remain as

one. And yet I know that not to have me is real suffering, and if

I listened to myself I should ask Jesus to let me bear the sadness

in your stead! I do not listen, as you see; I should be afraid of

being selfish in wishing for myself the better part--I mean the

suffering. You are right--life is often burdensome and bitter. It

is painful to begin a day of toil, especially when Jesus hides

Himself from our love. What is this sweet Friend about? Does He

not see our anguish and the burden that weighs us down? Why does

He not come and comfort us?

Be not afraid. . . . He is here at hand. He is watching, and it is

He who begs from us this pain, these tears. . . . He needs them

for souls, for our souls, and He longs to give us a magnificent

reward. I assure you that it costs Him dear to fill us with

bitterness, but He knows that it is the only means of preparing us

to know Him as He knows Himself, and to become ourselves Divine!

Our soul is indeed great and our destiny glorious. Let us lift

ourselves above all things that pass, and hold ourselves far from

the earth! Up above, the air is so pure. . . . Jesus may hide

Himself, but we know that He is there.

II

October 20, 1888.

MY DEAREST SISTER,--Do not let your weakness make you unhappy.

When, in the morning, we feel no courage or strength for the

practice of virtue, it is really a grace: it is the time to "lay

the axe to the root of the tree,"[1] relying upon Jesus alone. If

we fall, an act of love will set all right, and Jesus smiles. He

helps us without seeming to do so; and the tears which sinners

cause Him to shed are wiped away by our poor weak love. Love can

do all things. The most impossible tasks seem to it easy and

sweet. You know well that Our Lord does not look so much at the

greatness of our actions, nor even at their difficulty, as at the

love with which we do them. What, then, have we to fear?

You wish to become a Saint, and you ask me if this is not

attempting too much. Céline, I will not tell you to aim at the

seraphic holiness of the most privileged souls, but rather to be

"perfect as your Heavenly Father is perfect."[2] You see that your

dream--that our dreams and our desires--are not fancies, since

Jesus Himself has laid their realisation upon us as a commandment.

III

January, 1889.

MY DEAR LITTLE CÉLINE,--Jesus offers you the cross, a very heavy

cross, and you are afraid of not being able to carry it without

giving way. Why? Our Beloved Himself fell three times on the way

to Calvary, and why should we not imitate our Spouse? What a

favour from Jesus, and how He must love us to send us so great a

sorrow! Eternity itself will not be long enough to bless Him for

it. He heaps his favours upon us as upon the greatest Saints.

What, then, are His loving designs for our souls? That is a secret

which will only be revealed to us in our Heavenly Home, on the day

when "the Lord shall wipe away all our tears."[3]

Now we have nothing more to hope for on earth--"the cool evenings

are passed"[4]--for us suffering alone remains! Ours is an

enviable lot, and the Seraphim in Heaven are jealous of our

happiness.

The other day I came across this striking passage: "To be resigned

and to be united to the will of God are not the same; there is the

same difference between them as that which exists between union

and unity; in union there are still two, in unity there is but

one."[5] Yes, let us be one with God even in this life; and for

this we should be more than resigned, we should embrace the Cross

with joy.

IV

February 28, 1889.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--Jesus is "a Spouse of blood."[6] He wishes

for Himself all the blood of our hearts. You are right--it costs

us dear to give Him what He asks. But what a joy that it does

cost! It is happiness to bear our crosses, and to feel our

weakness in doing so.

Céline, far from complaining to Our Lord of this cross which He

sends us, I cannot fathom the Infinite Love which had led Him to

treat us in this way. Our dear Father must indeed be loved by God

to have so much suffering given to him. I know that by humiliation

alone can Saints be made, and I also know that our trial is a mine

of gold for us to turn to account. I, who am but a little grain of

sand, wish to set to work, though I have neither courage nor

strength. Now this very want of power will make my task easier,

for I wish to work for love. Our martyrdom is beginning . . . Let

us go forth to suffer together, dear sister, and let us offer our

sufferings to Jesus for the salvation of souls.

V

March 12, 1899.

. . . I must forget this world. Here everything wearies me--I find

only one joy, that of suffering, and this joy, which is not one of

sense, is above all joy. Life is passing, and eternity is drawing

near. Soon we shall live the very life of God. After we have been

filled at the source of all bitterness, our thirst will be

quenched at the very Fountain of all sweetness.

"The figure of this world passeth away"[7]--soon we shall see new

skies--a more radiant sun will light with its splendour crystal

seas and infinite horizons. We shall no longer be prisoners in a

land of exile, all will have passed away, and with our Heavenly

Spouse we shall sail upon boundless seas. Now, "our harps are

hanging on the willows which grow by the rivers of Babylon,"[8]

but in the day of our deliverance what harmonies will they not

give forth, how joyfully shall we make all their strings vibrate!

Now, "we shed tears as we remember Sion, for how can we sing the

songs of the Lord in a land of exile?"[9] The burden of our song

is suffering. Jesus offers us a chalice of great bitterness. Let

us not withdraw our lips from it, but suffer in peace. He who says

_peace_ does not say _joy,_ or at least sensible joy: to suffer in

peace it is enough to will heartily all that Our Lord wills. Do

not think we can find love without suffering, for our nature

remains and must be taken into account; but it puts great

treasures within our reach. Suffering is indeed our very

livelihood, and is so precious that Jesus came down upon earth on

purpose to possess it. We should like to suffer generously and

nobly; we should like never to fall. What an illusion! What does

it matter to me if I fall at every moment! In that way I realise

my weakness, and I gain thereby. My God, Thou seest how little I

am good for, when Thou dost carry me in Thy Arms; and if Thou

leavest me alone, well, it is because it pleases Thee to see me

lie on the ground. Then why should I be troubled?

If you are willing to bear in peace the trial of not being pleased

with yourself, you will be offering the Divine Master a home in

your heart. It is true that you will suffer, because you will be

like a stranger to your own house; but do not be afraid--the

poorer you are, the more Jesus will love you. I know that He is

better pleased to see you stumbling in the night upon a stony

road, than walking in the full light of day upon a path carpeted

with flowers, because these flowers might hinder your advance.

VI

July 14, 1889.

MY DARLING SISTER,--I am ever with you in spirit. Yes, it is very

hard to live upon this earth, but to-morrow, in a brief hour, we

shall be at rest. O my God, what shall we then see? What is this

life which will have no end? Our Lord will be the soul of our

soul. O unsearchable mystery! "Eye hath not seen nor ear heard,

neither hath it entered into the heart of man what things God hath

prepared for them that love Him."[10] And all this will come

soon--very soon--if we love Jesus ardently. It seems to me that

God has no need of years to perfect His labour of love in a soul.

One ray from His Heart can in an instant make His flower blossom

forth, never to fade. . . . Céline, during the fleeting moments

that remain to us, let us save souls! I feel that Our Spouse asks

us for souls--above all, for the souls of Priests. . . . It is He

Who bids me tell you this.

There is but one thing to be done here below: to love Jesus, and

to save souls for Him that He may be more loved. We must not let

slip the smallest opportunity of giving Him joy. We must refuse

Him nothing. He is in such need of love.

We are His chosen lilies. He dwells as a King in our midst--He

lets us share the honours of His Royalty--His Divine Blood bedews

our petals--and His Thorns as they wound us spread abroad the

perfume of our love.

VII

October 22, 1889.

MY DEAREST CÉLINE,--I send you a picture of the Holy Face. The

contemplation of this Divine subject seems to me to belong in a

special way to my little sister, truly the sister of my soul. May

she be another Veronica, and wipe away all the Blood and Tears of

Jesus, her only Love! May she give Him souls! May she force her

way through the soldiers--that is, the world--to come close to His

side. . . . Happy will she be when she sees in Heaven the value of

that mysterious draught with which she quenched the thirst of her

Heavenly Spouse; when she sees His Lips, once parched with burning

thirst, speaking to her the one eternal word--love, and the thanks

which shall have no end. . . .

Good-bye, dear little Veronica;[11] to-morrow, no doubt, your

Beloved will ask some new sacrifice, a fresh relief for His thirst

. . . but "let us go and die with Him!"

VIII

July 18, 1890.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--I send you a passage from Isaias which

will comfort you. Long ago the Prophet's soul was filled with the

thought of the hidden beauties of the Divine Face, as our souls

are now. Many a century has passed since then. It makes me wonder

what is Time. Time is but a mirage, a dream. Already God sees us

in glory, and rejoices in our everlasting bliss. How much good I

derive from this thought! I understand now why He allows us to

suffer.

Since Our Beloved has "trodden the wine-press alone,"[12] the

wine-press from which He gives us to drink--on our side let us not

refuse to be clothed in blood-stained garments, or to tread out

for Jesus a new wine which may quench His thirst! When "He looks

around Him," He will not be able to say now that "He is

alone"[13]--we shall be there to help Him.

"His look as it were hidden."[14] Alas! it is so even to this day,

and no one understands His Tears. "Open to Me, My Sister, My

Spouse," he says to us, "for My Head is full of dew and My Locks

of the drops of the night."[15] Thus Jesus complains to our souls

when He is deserted and forgotten . . . _To be forgotten._ It is

this, I think, which gives Him most pain.

And our dear Father!--it is heartrending, but how can we repine

since Our Lord Himself was looked upon "as one struck by God and

afflicted"?[16] In this great sorrow we should forget ourselves,

and pray for Priests--our lives must be entirely devoted to them.

Our Divine Master makes me feel more and more that this is what He

asks of you and me.

IX

September 23, 1890.

O Céline, how can I tell you all that is happening within me? What

a wound I have received! And yet I feel it is inflicted by a

loving Hand, by a Hand divinely jealous.

All was ready for my espousals;[17] but do you not think that

something was still wanting to the feast? It is true, Jesus had

already enriched me with many jewels, but no doubt there was one

of incomparable beauty still missing; this priceless diamond He

has given me to-day . . . Papa will not be here to-morrow! Céline,

I confess that I have cried bitterly. . . . I am still crying so

that I can scarcely hold my pen.

You know how intensely I longed to see our dearest Father again;

but now I feel that it is God's Will that he should not be at my

feast. God has allowed it simply to try our love. Jesus wishes me

to be an orphan . . . to be alone, with Him alone, so that He may

unite Himself more closely to me. He wishes, too, to give me back

in Heaven this joy so lawfully desired, but which He has denied me

here on earth.

To-day's trial is one of those sorrows that are difficult to

understand: a joy was set before us, one most natural and easy of

attainment. We stretched forth our hands . . . and the coveted joy

was withdrawn. But it is not the hand of man which has done this

thing--it is God's work. Céline, understand your Thérèse, and let

us accept cheerfully the thorn which is offered us. To-morrow's

feast will be one of tears, but I feel that Jesus will be greatly

consoled. . . .

X

October 14, 1890.

MY DARLING SISTER,--I know quite well all you are suffering. I

know your anguish, and I share it. Oh! If I could but impart to

you the peace which Jesus has put into my soul amid my most bitter

tears. Be comforted--all passes away. Our life of yesterday is

spent; death too will come and go, and then we shall rejoice in

life, true life, for countless ages, for evermore. Meanwhile let

us make of our heart a garden of delights where Our sweet Saviour

may come and take His rest. Let us plant only lilies there, and

sing with St. John of the Cross:

"There I remained in deep oblivion, My head reposing upon Him I

love, Lost to myself and all! I cast my cares away And let them,

heedless, mid the lilies lie."[18]

XI

April 26, 1891.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--Three years ago our hearts had not yet

been bruised, and life was one glad smile. Then Jesus looked down

upon us, and all things were changed into an ocean of tears . . .

but likewise into an ocean of grace and of love. God has taken

from us him whom we loved so tenderly--was it not that we might be

able to say more truly than ever: "Our Father Who art in heaven"?

How consoling is this divine word, and what vast horizons it opens

before us!

My darling Céline, you who asked me so many questions when we were

little, I wonder how it was you never asked: "Why has God not made

me an Angel?" Well, I am going to tell you. Our Lord wishes to

have His Court here on earth, as He has in Heaven; He wishes for

angel-martyrs and angel-apostles; and if He has not made you an

Angel in Heaven, it is because He wishes you to be an Angel of

earth, so that you may be able to suffer for His Love.

Dearest sister, the shadows will soon disappear, the rays of the

Eternal Sun will thaw the hoar frost of winter. . . . A little

longer, and we shall be in our true country, and our childhood's

joys--those Sunday evenings, those outpourings of the heart--will

be given back to us for ever!

XII

August 15, 1892.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--To write to you to-day I am obliged to

steal a little time from Our Lord. He will forgive, because it is

of Him that we are going to speak together. The vast solitudes and

enchanting views which unfold themselves before you ought to

uplift your soul. I do not see those things, and I content myself

by saying with St. John of the Cross in his Spiritual Canticle:

In Christ I have the mountains, The quiet, wooded valleys.

Lately I have been thinking what I could undertake for the

salvation of souls, and these simple words of the Gospel have

given me light. Pointing to the fields of ripe corn, Jesus once

said to His disciples: "Lift up your eyes and see the fields, for

they are already white with the harvest";[19] and again: "The

harvest indeed is great, but the labourers are few; pray ye

therefore the Lord of the harvest that He send forth

labourers."[20]

Here is a mystery indeed! Is not Jesus all-powerful? Do not

creatures belong to Him who made them? Why does He deign to say:

"Pray ye the Lord of the harvest that He send forth labourers"? It

is because His Love for us is so unsearchable, so tender, that He

wishes us to share in all He does. The Creator of the Universe

awaits the prayer of a poor little soul to save a multitude of

other souls, ransomed, like her, at the price of His Blood.

Our vocation is not to go forth and reap in Our Father's fields.

Jesus does not say to us: "Look down and reap the harvest." Our

mission is even more sublime. "Lift up your eyes and see," saith

our Divine Master, "see how in Heaven there are empty thrones. It

is for you to fill them. . . . You are as Moses praying on the

mountain, so ask Me for labourers and they shall be sent. I only

await a prayer, a sigh! Is not the apostolate of prayer--so to

speak--higher than that of the spoken word? It is for us by prayer

to train workers who will spread the glad tidings of the Gospel

and who will save countless souls--the souls to whom we shall be

the spiritual Mothers. What, then, have we to envy in the Priests

of the Lord?

XIII

MY DARLING SISTER,--The affection of our childhood days has

changed into a closest union of mind and heart. Jesus has drawn us

to Him together, for are you not already His? He has put the world

beneath our feet. Like Zaccheus we have climbed into a tree to

behold Him--mysterious tree, raising us high above all things,

from whence we can say: "All is mine, all is for me: the Earth and

the Heavens are mine, God Himself is mine, and the Mother of my

God is for me."[21]

Speaking of that Blessed Mother, I must tell you of one of my

simple ways. Sometimes I find myself saying to her: "Dearest

Mother, it seems to me that I am happier than you. I have you for

my Mother, and you have no Blessed Virgin to love. . . . It is

true, you are the Mother of Jesus, but you have given Him to me;

and He, from the Cross, has given you to be our Mother--thus we

are richer than you! Long ago, in your humility, you wished to

become the little handmaid of the Mother of God; and I--poor

little creature--am not your handmaid but your child! You are the

Mother of Jesus, and you are also _mine!"_

Our greatness in Jesus is verily marvellous, my Céline. He has

unveiled for us many a mystery by making us climb the mystical

tree of which I spoke above. And now what science is He going to

teach? Have we not learned all things from Him?

"Make haste to come down, for this day I must abide in thy

house."[22] Jesus bids us come down. Where, then, must we go? The

Jews asked Him: "Master, where dwellest thou?"[23] And He

answered, "The foxes have holes and the birds of the air nests,

but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His Head."[24] If we are

to be the dwelling-place of Jesus, we must come down even to

this--we must be so poor that we have not where to lay our heads.

This grace of light has been given to me during my retreat. Our

Lord desires that we should receive Him into our hearts, and no

doubt they are empty of creatures. Alas! mine is not empty of

self; that is why He bids me come down. And I shall come down even

to the very ground, that Jesus may find within my heart a

resting-place for His Divine Head, and may feel that there at

least He is loved and understood.

XIV

April 25, 1893.

MY LITTLE CÉLINE,--I must come and disclose the desires of Jesus

with regard to your soul. Remember that He did not say: "I am the

flower of the gardens, a carefully-tended Rose"; but, "I am the

Flower of the fields and the Lily of the valleys."[25] Well, you

must be always as a drop of dew hidden in the heart of this

beautiful Lily of the valley.

The dew-drop--what could be simpler, what more pure? It is not the

child of the clouds; it is born beneath the starry sky, and

survives but a night. When the sun darts forth its ardent rays,

the delicate pearls adorning each blade of grass quickly pass into

the lightest of vapour. . . . There is the portrait of my little

Céline! She is a drop of dew, an offspring of Heaven--her true

Home. Through the night of this life she must hide herself in the

_Field-flower's_ golden cup; no eye must discover her abode.

Happy dewdrop, known to God alone, think not of the rushing

torrents of this world! Envy not even the crystal stream which

winds among the meadows. The ripple of its waters is sweet indeed,

but it can be heard by creatures. Besides, the Field-flower could

never contain it in its cup. One must be so little to draw near to

Jesus, and few are the souls that aspire to be little and unknown.

"Are not the river and the brook," they urge, "of more use than a

dewdrop? Of what avail is it? Its only purpose is to refresh for

one moment some poor little field-flower."

Ah! They little know the true _Flower of the field._ Did they know

Him they would understand better Our Lord's reproach to Martha.

Our Beloved needs neither our brilliant deeds nor our beautiful

thoughts. Were He in search of lofty ideas, has He not His Angels,

whose knowledge infinitely surpasses that of the greatest genius

of earth? Neither intellect nor other talents has He come to seek

among us. . . . He has become the _Flower of the field_ to show

how much He loves simplicity.

_The Lily of the valley_ asks but a single dewdrop, which for one

night shall rest in its cup, hidden from all human eyes. But when

the shadows shall begin to fade, when the _Flower of the field_

shall have become the _Sun of Justice,_[26] then the dewdrop--the

humble sharer of His exile--will rise up to Him as love's vapour.

He will shed on her a ray of His light, and before the whole court

of Heaven she will shine eternally like a precious pearl, a

dazzling mirror of the Divine Sun.

XV

August 2, 1893.

MY DEAR CÉLINE,--What you write fills me with joy; you are making

your way by a royal road. The Spouse in the Canticles, unable to

find her Beloved in the time of repose, went forth to seek Him in

the city. But in vain . . . it was only without the walls she

found Him. It is not in the sweetness of repose that Jesus would

have us discover His Adorable Presence. He hides Himself and

shrouds Himself in darkness. True, this was not His way with the

multitude, for we read that all the people were carried away as

soon as He spoke to them.

The weaker souls He charmed by His divine eloquence with the aim

of strengthening them against the day of temptation and trial, but

His faithful friends were few that day when "He was silent"[27] in

the presence of His judges. Sweet melody to my heart is that

silence of the Divine Master!

He would have us give Him alms as to a poor man, and puts

Himself--so to speak--at our mercy. He will take nothing that is

not cheerfully given, and the veriest trifle is precious in His

Divine Eyes. He stretches forth His Hand to receive a little love,

that in the radiant day of the Judgment He may speak to us those

ineffably sweet words: "Come, ye blessed of My Father, for I was

hungry and you gave Me to drink, I was a stranger and you took Me

in, I was sick and you visited Me, I was in prison and you came to

Me."[28]

Dearest Céline, let us rejoice in the lot that is ours! Let us

give and give again, and give royally, never forgetting that Our

Beloved is a hidden Treasure which few souls know how to find. Now

to discover that which is hidden we must needs hide ourselves in

the hiding-place. Let our life, then, be one of concealment. The

author of the _Imitation_ tells us:

"If thou would'st know and learn something to the purpose, love to

be unknown, and to be esteemed as nothing . . . [29] Having

forsaken all things, a man should forsake himself. . . [30] Let

this man glory in this and another in that, but thou for thy part

rejoice neither in this nor in that, but in the contempt of

thyself."[31]

XVI

MY DEAR CÉLINE,--You tell me that my letters do good to you. I am

indeed glad, but I assure you that I am under no misapprehension:

"Unless the Lord build the house, they labour in vain who build

it."[32] The greatest eloquence cannot call forth a single act of

love without that grace which touches the heart.

Think of a beautiful peach with its delicate tint of rose, with

its flavour so sweet that no human skill could invent such nectar.

Tell me, Céline, is it for the peach's own sake that God created

that colour so fair to the eye, that velvety covering so soft to

the touch? Is it for itself that He made it so sweet? Nay, it is

for us; the only thing that is all its own and is essential to its

being, is the stone; it possesses nothing beyond.

Thus also it pleases Jesus to lavish His gifts on certain souls in

order to draw yet others to Himself; in His Mercy He humbles them

inwardly and gently compels them to recognise their nothingness

and His Almighty Power. Now this sentiment of humility is like a

kernel of grace which God hastens to develop against that blessed

day, when, clothed with an imperishable beauty, they will be

placed, without danger, on the banqueting-table of Paradise. Dear

little sister, sweet echo of my soul, Thérèse is far from the

heights of fervour at this moment; but when I am in this state of

spiritual dryness, unable to pray, or to practise virtue, I look

for little opportunities, for the smallest trifles, to please my

Jesus: a smile or a kind word, for instance, when I would wish to

be silent, or to show that I am bored. If no such occasion offer,

I try at least to say over and over again that I love Him. This is

not hard, and it keeps alive the fire in my heart. Even should the

fire of love seem dead, I would still throw my tiny straws on the

ashes, and I am confident it would light up again.

It is true I am not always faithful, but I never lose courage. I

leave myself in the Arms of Our Lord. He teaches me to draw profit

from everything, from the good and from the bad which He finds in

me.[33] He teaches me to speculate in the Bank of Love, or rather

it is He Who speculates for me, without telling me how He does

it--that is His affair, not mine. I have but to surrender myself

wholly to Him, to do so without reserve, without even the

satisfaction of knowing what it is all bringing to me. . . . After

all, I am not the prodigal child, and Jesus need not trouble about

a feast for me, _because I am always with Him._[34]

I have read in the Gospel that the Good Shepherd leaves the

faithful ones of His flock in the desert to hasten after the lost

sheep. This confidence touches me deeply. You see He is sure of

them. How could they stray away? They are prisoners of Love. In

like manner does the Beloved Shepherd of our souls deprive us of

the sweets of His Presence, to give His consolations to sinners;

or if He lead us to Mount Thabor it is but for one brief moment

. . . the pasture land is nearly always in the valleys, "it is

there

that He takes His rest at mid-day."[35]

XVII

October 20, 1893.

MY DEAR SISTER,--I find in the Canticle of Canticles this passage

which may be fitly applied to you: "What dost thou see in thy

beloved but a band of musicians in an armed camp?"[36] Through

suffering, your life has in truth become a battle-field, and there

must be a band of musicians, so you shall be the little harp of

Jesus. But no concert is complete without singing, and if Jesus

plays, must not Céline make melody with her voice? When the music

is plaintive, she will sing the songs of exile; when the music is

gay, she will lilt the airs of her Heavenly Home. . . .

Whatever may happen, all earthly events, be they happy or sad,

will be but distant sounds, unable to awake a vibration from the

harp of Jesus. He reserves to Himself alone the right of lightly

touching its strings.

I cannot think without delight of that sweet saint, Cecilia. What

an example she gives us! In the midst of a pagan world, in the

very heart of danger, at the moment when she was to be united to a

man whose love was so utterly of earth, it seems to me as if she

should have wept and trembled with fear. But instead, "during the

music of the marriage-feast Cecilia kept singing in her

heart."[37] What perfect resignation! No doubt she heard other

melodies than those of this world; her Divine Spouse too was

singing, and the Angels repeated in chorus the refrain of

Bethlehem's blessed night: "Glory to God in the highest, and on

earth peace to men of goodwill."[38]

The Glory of God! St. Cecilia understood it well, and longed for

it with all her heart. She guessed that her Jesus was thirsting

for souls . . . and that is why her whole desire was to bring to

Him quickly the soul of the young Roman, whose only thought was of

human glory. This wise Virgin will make of him a Martyr, and

multitudes will follow in his footsteps. She knows no fear: the

Angels in their song made promise of peace. She knows that the

Prince of Peace is bound to protect her, to guard her virginity,

and to make her recompense. . . . "Oh, how beautiful is the chaste

generation!"[39]

Dearest sister, I hardly know what I write; I let my pen follow

the dictates of my heart. You tell me that you feel your weakness,

but that is a grace. It is Our Lord Who sows the seeds of distrust

of self in your soul. Do not be afraid! If you do not fail to give

Him pleasure in small things, he will be obliged to help you in

great ones.

The Apostles laboured long without Him, they toiled a whole night

and caught no fish. Their labours were not inacceptable to him,

but He wished to prove that He is the Giver of all things. So an

act of humility was asked of the Apostles, and Our loving Lord

called to them: "Children, have you anything to eat?"[40] St.

Peter, avowing his helplessness, cried out: "Lord, we have

laboured all the night, and have taken nothing."[41] It is enough,

the Heart of Jesus is touched. . . . Had the Apostle caught some

small fish, perhaps our Divine Master would not have worked a

miracle; but he had caught _nothing,_ and so through the power and

goodness of God his nets were soon filled with great fishes. Such

is Our Lord's way. He gives as God--with divine largesse--but He

insists on humility of heart.

XVIII

July 7, 1894.

MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER,--I do not know if you are still in the same

frame of mind as when you last wrote to me; I presume that you

are, and I answer with this passage of the Canticle of Canticles,

which explains so well the state of a soul in utter dryness, a

soul which cannot find joy or consolation in anything: "I went

down into the garden of nut-trees to see the fruits of the

valleys, and to look if the vineyard had flourished, and the

pomegranates were in bud. I no longer knew where I was: my soul

was troubled because of the chariots of Aminadab."[42]

There is the true picture of our souls. Often we go down in the

fertile valleys where our heart loves to find its nourishment; and

the vast fields of Holy Scripture, which have so often opened to

yield us richest treasures, now seem but an arid and waterless

waste. We no longer even know where we stand. In place of peace

and light, all is sorrow and darkness. But, like the Spouse in the

Canticles, we know the cause of this trial: "My soul was troubled

because of the chariots of Aminadab." We are not as yet in our

true country, and as gold is tired in the fire so must our souls

be purified by temptation. We sometimes think we are abandoned.

Alas! _the chariots_--that is to say, the idle clamours which

beset and disturb us--are they within the soul or without? We

cannot tell, but Jesus knows; He sees all our grief, and in the

night, on a sudden, His Voice is heard: "Return, return, O

Sulamitess: return, return, that we may behold thee."[43]