I ought
not to rejoice in my dryness of soul, but rather attribute it to
my want of fervour and fidelity. That I fall asleep so often
during meditation, and thanksgiving after Communion, should
distress me. Well, I am not distressed. I reflect that little
children are equally dear to their parents whether they are asleep
or awake; that, in order to perform operations, doctors put their
patients to sleep; and finally that "The Lord knoweth our frame,
He remembereth that we are but dust."[1] Yet, apparently barren as
was my retreat--and those which followed have been no less so--I
unconsciously received many interior lights on the best means of
pleasing God, and practising virtue. I have often observed that
Our Lord will not give me any store of provisions, but nourishes
me each moment with food that is ever new; I find it within me
without knowing how it has come there. I simply believe that it is
Jesus Himself hidden in my poor heart, who is secretly at work,
inspiring me with what He wishes me to do as each occasion arises.

Shortly before my profession I received the Holy Father's
blessing, through the hands of Brother Simeon; and this precious
Blessing undoubtedly helped me through the most terrible storm of
my whole life.

On the eve of the great day, instead of being filled with the
customary sweetness, my vocation suddenly seemed to me as unreal
as a dream. The devil--for it was he--made me feel sure that I was
wholly unsuited for life in the Carmel, and that I was deceiving
my superiors by entering on a way to which I was not called. The
darkness was so bewildering that I understood but one thing--I had
no religious vocation, and must return to the world. I cannot
describe the agony I endured. What was I to do in such a
difficulty? I chose the right course, deciding to tell my Novice
Mistress of the temptation without delay. I sent for her to come
out of choir, and though full of confusion, I confessed the state
of my soul. Fortunately she saw more clearly than I did, and
reassured me completely by laughing frankly at my story. The devil
was put to instant flight by my humble avowal; what he wanted was
to keep me from speaking, and thus draw me into his snares. But it
was my turn now to ensnare him, for, to make my humiliation more
complete, I also told you everything, dear Mother, and your
consoling words dispelled my last fears.

On the morning of September 8, a wave of peace flooded my soul,
and, in "th