trusting in my own merits, for I
have none; but I trust in Him Who is Virtue and Holiness itself.
It is He alone Who, pleased with my feeble efforts, will raise me
to Himself, and, by clothing me with His merits, make me a Saint.
At that time I did not realise that to become one it is necessary
to suffer a great deal; but God soon disclosed this secret to me
by means of the trials I have related.

I must now continue my story where I left off. Three months after
my cure Papa took me away for a change. It was a very pleasant
time, and I began to see something of the world. All around me was
joy and gladness; I was petted, made much of, admired--in fact,
for a whole fortnight my path was strewn with flowers. The Wise
Man is right when he says: "The bewitching of vanity overturneth
the innocent mind."[2] At ten years of age the heart is easily
fascinated, and I confess that in my case this kind of life had
its charms. Alas! the world knows well how to combine its
pleasures with the service of God. How little it thinks of death!
And yet death has come to many people I knew then, young, rich,
and happy. I recall to mind the delightful places where they
lived, and ask myself where they are now, and what profit they
derive to-day from the beautiful houses and grounds where I saw
them enjoying all the good things of this life, and I reflect that
"All is vanity besides loving God and serving Him alone."[3]

Perhaps Our Lord wished me to know something of the world before
He paid His first visit to my soul, so that I might choose more
deliberately the way in which I was to follow Him.

I shall always remember my First Communion Day as one of unclouded
happiness. It seems to me that I could not have been better
prepared. Do you remember, dear Mother, the charming little book
you gave me three months before the great day? I found in it a
helpful method which prepared me gradually and thoroughly. It is
true I had been thinking about my First Communion for a long time,
but, as your precious manuscript told me, I must stir up in my
heart fresh transports of love and fill it anew with flowers. So,
each day I made a number of little sacrifices and acts of love,
which were to be changed into so many flowers: now violets,
another time roses, then cornflowers, daisies, or
forget-me-nots--in a word, all nature's blossoms were to form in
me a cradle for the Holy Child.

I had Marie, too, who took Pauline's place. Every evening I spent