ering--a gift I needed sorely, for the martyrdom
of my soul was soon to begin.

When these delightful feasts, which can never be forgotten, were
over, I had to resume my life as a day scholar, at the Abbey. I
made good progress with my lessons, and remembered easily the
sense of what I read, but I had the greatest difficulty in
learning by heart; only at catechism were my efforts crowned with
success. The Chaplain called me his little "Doctor of
Theology,"[7] no doubt because of my name, Therese.

During recreation I often gave myself up to serious thoughts,
while from a distance I watched my companions at play. This was my
favourite occupation, but I had another which gave me real
pleasure. I would search carefully for any poor little birds that
had fallen dead under the big trees, and I then buried them with
great ceremony, all in the same cemetery, in a special grass plot.
Sometimes I told stories to my companions, and often even the big
girls came to listen; but soon our mistress, very rightly, brought
my career as an orator to an end, saying she wanted us to exercise
our bodies and not our brains. At this time I chose as friends two
little girls of my own age; but how shallow are the hearts of
creatures! One of them had to stay at home for some months; while
she was away I thought about her very often, and on her return I
showed how pleased I was. However, all I got was a glance of
indifference--my friendship was not appreciated. I felt this very
keenly, and I no longer sought an affection which had proved so
inconstant. Nevertheless I still love my little school friend, and
continue to pray for her, for God has given me a faithful heart,
and when once I love, I love for ever.

Observing that some of the girls were very devoted to one or other
of the mistresses, I tried to imitate them, but I never succeeded
in winning special favour. O happy failure, from how many evils
have you saved me! I am most thankful to Our Lord that He let me
find only bitterness in earthly friendships. With a heart like
mine, I should have been taken captive and had my wings clipped,
and how then should I have been able to "fly away and be at
rest"?[8]

How can a heart given up to human affections be closely united to
God? It seems to me that it is impossible. I have seen so many
souls, allured by this false light, fly right into it like poor
moths, and burn their wings, and then return, wounded, to Our
Lord, the Divine fire which