heard Mass. At
the moment of Communion, when Jesus had entered our hearts, I
heard sobs on all sides. I did not shed a tear, but as I led the
way to the cloister door my heart beat so violently that I
wondered if I were going to die. Oh, the agony of that moment! One
must have experienced it in order to understand. I embraced all my
dear ones and knelt for my Father's blessing. He, too, knelt down
and blessed me through his tears. It was a sight to gladden the
Angels, this old man giving his child to God while she was yet in
the springtime of life. At length the doors of the Carmel closed
upon me. . . . I found a welcome in your arms, dear Mother, and
received the embraces of another family, whose devotedness and
love is not dreamt of by the outside world.

At last my desires were realised, and I cannot describe the deep
sweet peace which filled my soul. This peace has remained with me
during the eight and a half years of my life here, and has never
left me even amid the greatest trials.

Everything in the Convent delighted me, especially our little
cell.[1] I fancied myself transported to the desert. I repeat that
my happiness was calm and peaceful--not even the lightest breeze
ruffled the tranquil waters on which my little barque sailed; no
cloud darkened the blue sky. I felt fully recompensed for all I
had gone through, and I kept saying: "Now I am here for ever."
Mine was no passing joy, it did not fade like first illusions.
From illusions God in His Mercy has ever preserved me. I found the
religious life just what I expected, and sacrifice was never a
matter of surprise. Yet you know well that from the beginning my
ways was strewn with thorns rather than with roses.

In the first place, my soul had for its daily food the bread of
spiritual dryness. Then, too, dear Mother, Our Lord allowed you,
unconsciously, to treat me very severely. You found fault with me
whenever you met me. I remember once I had left a cobweb in the
cloister, and you said to me before the whole community: "It is
easy to see that our cloisters are swept by a child of fifteen. It
is disgraceful! Go and sweep away that cobweb, and be more careful
in future."

On the rare occasions when I spent an hour with you for spiritual
direction, you seemed to be scolding me nearly all the time, and
what pained me most of all was that I did not see how to correct
my faults: for instance, my slow ways and want of throughness in
my duties, faults which