cross one’s mind, especially in a convent of a contemplative Order where the centre of one’s life is, as Mother Mary Hilda would say, the perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament exposed upon the altar; where, as she teaches, next to receiving Holy Communion, this hour of prayer and meditation in the presence of our Lord is the central feature of our spiritual life, the axis on which our spiritual progress revolves.

“This was the subject of yesterday’s lesson; nevertheless, during the meditation thoughts came and went, and I found much difficulty in trying to fix my mind.  Perhaps I shall never learn how to meditate on—­shall I say the Cross?—­I shall never be able to fix my attention.  Thoughts of the heroes and heroines of legends come and go in my mind, mixing with thoughts of Christ and His apostles; yet there is little of me in these flitting remembrances.  My stage life does not interest me any longer, but the Prioress does not see it as I do, far away, a tiny speck.  My art was once very real to me, and I am surprised, and a little disappointed sometimes, that it should seem so little now.  But what I would not have, if I could change it, is the persistency with which I remember my lovers; not that I desire them, oh, no; but in the midst of a meditation on the Cross a remembrance catches one about the heart, and, closing the eyes, one tries to forget; and, Monsignor, what is worse than memory is our powerlessness to regret our sins.  We may not wish to sin again, but we cannot regret that we have sinned.  How is one to regret that one is oneself?  For one’s past is as much oneself as one’s present.  Has any saint attained to such a degree of perfection as to wish his past had never existed?

“Another part of my life which I remember very well—­much better than my stage life—­is the time I spent working among the poor under your direction.  My poor people are very vivid in my memory; I remember their kindness to each other, their simplicities, and their patience.  The patience of the poor is divine!  But the poor people who looked to me for help had to be put aside, and that was the hardest part of my regeneration.  Of course I know that I should have perished utterly if I had not put them aside, but even the thought of my great escape does not altogether satisfy me, and I would that I might have escaped without leaving them, the four poor women whom I took under my special protection, and who came to see me the day before I came to the convent to ask me not to leave them.  Four poor women, poor beyond poverty, came to ask me not to go into the convent.  ’The convent will be always able to get on without you, miss.’  Such poverty as theirs is silent, they only asked me not to leave them, not to go to the convent.  Among them was poor Lena, a hunchback seamstress, who has never been able to do more than keep herself from starving.  It is hard that cripples should have to support themselves.  She has, I think, always lived in fear lest she should not be able to