day after her death my Father took me in his arms and said:
"Come and kiss your dear Mother for the last time." Without saying
a word I put my lips to her icy forehead. I do not remember having
cried much, and I did not talk to anyone of all that filled my
heart; I looked and listened in silence, and I saw many things
they would have hidden from me. Once I found myself close to the
coffin in the passage. I stood looking at it for a long time; I
had never seen one before, but I knew what it was. I was so small
that I had to lift up my head to see its whole length, and it
seemed to me very big and very sad.

Fifteen years later I was again standing by another coffin, that
of our holy Mother Genevieve,[1] and I was carried back to the
days of my childhood. Memories crowded upon me; it was the same
little Therese who looked at it, but she had grown, and the coffin
seemed small. She had not to lift up her head to it, now she only
raised her eyes to contemplate Heaven which seemed to her very
full of joy, for trials had matured and strengthened her soul, so
that nothing on earth could make her grieve.

Our Lord did not leave me wholly an orphan; on the day of my
Mother's funeral He gave me another mother, and allowed me to
choose her freely. We were all five together, looking at one
another sadly, when our nurse, overcome with emotion, said,
turning to Celine and to me: "Poor little dears, you no longer
have a Mother." Then Celine threw herself into Marie's arms,
crying: "Well, you will be my Mother now." I was so accustomed to
imitate Celine that I should undoubtedly have followed her
example, but I feared Pauline would be sad and feel herself left
out if she too had not a little daughter. So, with a loving look,
I hid my face on her breast saying in my turn: "And Pauline will
be my Mother."

That day, as I have said, began the second period of my life. It
was the most sorrowful of all, especially after Pauline, my second
Mother, entered the Carmel; and it lasted from the time I was four
years old until I was fourteen, when I recovered much of my
childish gaiety, even though I understood more fully the serious
side of life.

I must tell you that after my Mother's death my naturally happy
disposition completely changed. Instead of being lively and
demonstrative as I had been, I became timid, shy, and extremely
sensitive; a look was enough to make me burst into tears. I could
not bear to be noticed or to meet strangers