a half when Leonie left school, and I took her
place at the Benedictine Abbey in Lisieux. The girls of my class
were all older than myself; one of them was fourteen, and, though
not clever, she knew how to impose on the little ones. Seeing me
so young, nearly always first in class, and a favourite with all
the nuns, she was jealous, and used to pay me out in a thousand
ways. Naturally timid and sensitive, I did not know how to defend
myself, and could only cry in silence. Celine and my elder sisters
did not know of my grief, and, not being advanced enough in virtue
to rise above these troubles, I suffered considerably.

Every evening I went home, and then my spirits rose. I would climb
on to Papa's knee, telling him what marks I had, and his caresses
made me forget all my troubles. With what delight I announced the
result of my first essay, for I won the maximum number of marks.
In reward I received a silver coin which I put in my money box for
the poor, and nearly every Thursday I was able to increase the
fund.

Indeed, to be spoilt was a real necessity for me. The Little
Flower had need to strike its tender roots deeper and deeper into
the dearly loved garden of home, for nowhere else could it find
the nourishment it required. Thursday was a holiday, but it was
not like the holidays I had under Pauline, which I generally spent
upstairs with Papa. Not knowing how to play like other children, I
felt myself a dull companion. I tried my best to do as the others
did, but without success.

After Celine, who was, so to say, indispensable to me, I sought
the company of my little cousin Marie, because she left me free to
choose the games I liked best. We were already closely united in
heart and will, as if God were showing us in advance how one day
in the Carmel we should embrace the same religious life.[1]

Very often, at my uncle's house, we used to play at being two
austere hermits, with only a poor hut, a little patch of corn, and
a garden in which to grow a few vegetables. Our life was to be
spent in continual contemplation, one praying while the other
engaged in active duties. All was done with religious gravity and
decorum. If we went out, the make-believe continued even in the
street; the two hermits would say the Rosary, using their fingers
to count on, so as not to display their devotion before those who
might scoff. One day, however, the hermit Therese forgot
herself--before eating a cake, given her for lunch