e of the most
beautiful of my life.

I have gone back a little in order to recall these happy memories;
but now I must tell you of the mournful parting which crushed my
heart when Our Lord took from me my little Mother whom I loved so
dearly. I told her once that I would like to go away with her to a
far-off desert; she replied that it was her wish too, but that she
was waiting till I was big enough to set out. This impossible
promise I took in earnest, and what was my grief when I heard
Pauline talking to Marie about soon entering the Carmel! I did not
know the Carmel; but I knew that she was leaving me to enter a
convent, and that she would not wait for me.

How can I describe the anguish I suffered! In a flash I saw life
spread out before me as it really is, full of sufferings and
frequent partings, and I shed bitter tears. At that time I did not
know the joy of sacrifice; I was weak--so weak that I look on it
as a great grace that I was able to bear such a trial, one
seemingly so much beyond my strength--and yet live. I shall never
forget how tenderly my little Mother consoled me, while explaining
the religious life. Then one evening, when I was thinking over the
picture she had drawn, I felt that the Carmel was the desert where
God wished me also to hide. I felt this so strongly that I had not
the least doubt about it; nor was it a childish dream, but the
certainty of a Divine Call. This impression, which I cannot
properly describe, left me with a feeling of great inward peace.

Next day I confided my desires to Pauline. They seemed to her as a
proof of God's Will, and she promised to take me soon to the
Carmel, to see the Mother Prioress and to tell her my secret. This
solemn visit was fixed for a certain Sunday, and great was my
embarrassment on hearing that my cousin Marie--who was still young
enough to be allowed to see the Carmelites--was to come with us.[2]

I had to contrive a means of being alone with the Reverend Mother,
and this is what I planned. I told Marie, that, as we were to have
the great privilege of seeing her, we must be very good and
polite, and tell her our little secrets, and in order to do that,
we must go out of the room in turns. Though she did not quite like
it, because she had no secrets to confide, Marie took me at my
word, and so I was able to be alone with you, dear Mother. You
listened to my great disclosure, and believed in my vocation, but
you told me that postulants were not