Then she showed them to me and I
understood better than ever, in what true glory consists. He whose
"Kingdom is not of this world"[2] taught me that the only royalty
to be coveted lies in being "unknown and esteemed as naught,"[3]
and in the joy of self-abasement. And I wished that my face, like
the Face of Jesus, "should be, as it were, hidden and
despised,"[4] so that no one on earth should esteem me. I thirsted
to suffer and to be forgotten.

Most merciful has been the way by which the Divine Master has ever
led me. He has never inspired me with any desire and left it
unsatisfied, and that is why I have always found His bitter
chalice full of sweetness.

At the end of May, Marie, our eldest, was professed, and Therese,
the Benjamin, had the privilege of crowning her with roses on the
day of her mystical espousals. After this happy feast trials again
came upon us. Ever since his first attack of paralysis we realised
that my Father was very easily tired. During our journey to Rome I
often noticed that he seemed exhausted and in pain. But, above
all, I remarked his progress in the path of holiness; he had
succeeded in obtaining a complete mastery over the impetuosity of
his natural disposition, and earthly things were unable to ruffle
his calm. Let me give you an instance.

During our pilgrimage we were in the train for days and nights
together, and to wile away the time our companions played cards,
and occasionally grew very noisy. One day they asked us to join
them, but we refused, saying we knew little about the game; we did
not find the time long--only too short, indeed, to enjoy the
beautiful views which opened before us. Presently their annoyance
became evident, and then dear Papa began quietly to defend us,
pointing out that as we were on pilgrimage, more of our time might
be given to prayer.

One of the players, forgetting the respect due to age, called out
thoughtlessly: "Thank God, Pharisees are rare!" My Father did not
answer a word, he even seemed pleased; and later on he found an
opportunity of shaking hands with this man, and of speaking so
pleasantly that the latter must have thought his rude words had
either not been heard, or at least were forgotten.

His habit of forgiveness did not date from this day; my Mother and
all who knew him bore witness that no uncharitable word ever
passed his lips.

His faith and generosity were likewise equal to any trial. This is
how he announced my departure to