ould be unhappy, because that is the lot of kings; besides you
would no longer be my King alone, so I am glad that they do not
know you."

When I was six or seven years old I saw the sea for the first
time. The sight made a deep impression on me, I could not take my
eyes off it. Its majesty, and the roar of the waves, all spoke to
my soul of the greatness and power of God. I remember, when we
were on the beach, a man and woman looked at me for a long time,
then, asking Papa if I was his child, they remarked that I was a
very pretty little girl. Papa at once made a sign to them not to
flatter me; I was delighted to hear what they said, for I did not
think I was pretty. My sisters were most careful never to talk
before me in such a way as to spoil my simplicity and childish
innocence; and, because I believed so implicitly in them, I
attached little importance to the admiration of these people and
thought no more about it.

That evening at the hour when the sun seems to sink into the vast
ocean, leaving behind it a trail of glory, I sat with Pauline on a
bare rock, and gazed for long on this golden furrow which she told
me was an image of grace illumining the way of faithful souls here
below. Then I pictured my soul as a tiny barque, with a graceful
white sail, in the midst of the furrow, and I resolved never to
let it withdraw from the sight of Jesus, so that it might sail
peacefully and quickly towards the Heavenly Shore.
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[1] This holy nun had been professed at the Carmel of Poitiers,
and was sent from there to make the foundation at Lisieux in 1838.
Her memory is held in benediction in both these convents; in the
sight of God she constantly practised the most heroic virtue, and
on December 5, 1891, crowned a life of good works by a holy death.
She was then eighty-six years of age.

[2] This house, an object of deep interest to the clients of Soeur
Therese, is much frequented by pilgrims to Lisieux. [Ed.]

[3] This first confession was made in the beautiful church of St.
Pierre, formerly the cathedral of Lisieux. [Ed.]

[4] It seems advisable, on account of the vague allusions which
occur here and elsewhere, to state what happened to M. Louis
Martin. At the age of sixty-six, having already had several
partial attacks, he was struck with general paralysis, and his
mind gave way altogether.

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CHAPTER III
PAULINE ENTERS THE CARMEL

I was eight and