you to be our Mother--thus we
are richer than you! Long ago, in your humility, you wished to
become the little handmaid of the Mother of God; and I--poor
little creature--am not your handmaid but your child! You are the
Mother of Jesus, and you are also _mine!"_

Our greatness in Jesus is verily marvellous, my Celine. He has
unveiled for us many a mystery by making us climb the mystical
tree of which I spoke above. And now what science is He going to
teach? Have we not learned all things from Him?

"Make haste to come down, for this day I must abide in thy
house."[22] Jesus bids us come down. Where, then, must we go? The
Jews asked Him: "Master, where dwellest thou?"[23] And He
answered, "The foxes have holes and the birds of the air nests,
but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His Head."[24] If we are
to be the dwelling-place of Jesus, we must come down even to
this--we must be so poor that we have not where to lay our heads.

This grace of light has been given to me during my retreat. Our
Lord desires that we should receive Him into our hearts, and no
doubt they are empty of creatures. Alas! mine is not empty of
self; that is why He bids me come down. And I shall come down even
to the very ground, that Jesus may find within my heart a
resting-place for His Divine Head, and may feel that there at
least He is loved and understood.

XIV

April 25, 1893.

MY LITTLE CELINE,--I must come and disclose the desires of Jesus
with regard to your soul. Remember that He did not say: "I am the
flower of the gardens, a carefully-tended Rose"; but, "I am the
Flower of the fields and the Lily of the valleys."[25] Well, you
must be always as a drop of dew hidden in the heart of this
beautiful Lily of the valley.

The dew-drop--what could be simpler, what more pure? It is not the
child of the clouds; it is born beneath the starry sky, and
survives but a night. When the sun darts forth its ardent rays,
the delicate pearls adorning each blade of grass quickly pass into
the lightest of vapour. . . . There is the portrait of my little
Celine! She is a drop of dew, an offspring of Heaven--her true
Home. Through the night of this life she must hide herself in the
_Field-flower's_ golden cup; no eye must discover her abode.

Happy dewdrop, known to God alone, think not of the rushing
torrents of this world! Envy not even the crystal stream which
winds among the meadows. The ripple of its waters is sweet indeed,
but it can be