ile or a kind word, for instance, when I would wish to
be silent, or to show that I am bored. If no such occasion offer,
I try at least to say over and over again that I love Him. This is
not hard, and it keeps alive the fire in my heart. Even should the
fire of love seem dead, I would still throw my tiny straws on the
ashes, and I am confident it would light up again.

It is true I am not always faithful, but I never lose courage. I
leave myself in the Arms of Our Lord. He teaches me to draw profit
from everything, from the good and from the bad which He finds in
me.[33] He teaches me to speculate in the Bank of Love, or rather
it is He Who speculates for me, without telling me how He does
it--that is His affair, not mine. I have but to surrender myself
wholly to Him, to do so without reserve, without even the
satisfaction of knowing what it is all bringing to me. . . . After
all, I am not the prodigal child, and Jesus need not trouble about
a feast for me, _because I am always with Him._[34]

I have read in the Gospel that the Good Shepherd leaves the
faithful ones of His flock in the desert to hasten after the lost
sheep. This confidence touches me deeply. You see He is sure of
them. How could they stray away? They are prisoners of Love. In
like manner does the Beloved Shepherd of our souls deprive us of
the sweets of His Presence, to give His consolations to sinners;
or if He lead us to Mount Thabor it is but for one brief moment
. . . the pasture land is nearly always in the valleys, "it is
there
that He takes His rest at mid-day."[35]

XVII

October 20, 1893.

MY DEAR SISTER,--I find in the Canticle of Canticles this passage
which may be fitly applied to you: "What dost thou see in thy
beloved but a band of musicians in an armed camp?"[36] Through
suffering, your life has in truth become a battle-field, and there
must be a band of musicians, so you shall be the little harp of
Jesus. But no concert is complete without singing, and if Jesus
plays, must not Celine make melody with her voice? When the music
is plaintive, she will sing the songs of exile; when the music is
gay, she will lilt the airs of her Heavenly Home. . . .

Whatever may happen, all earthly events, be they happy or sad,
will be but distant sounds, unable to awake a vibration from the
harp of Jesus. He reserves to Himself alone the right of lightly
touching its strings.

I cannot think without delight of that sweet saint, Cecilia. What