The Little Flower, that now tells her tale, rejoiced in having to publish the wholly undeserved favours bestowed upon her by Our Lord.  She knows that she had nothing in herself worthy of attracting Him:  His Mercy alone showered blessings on her.  He allowed her to grow in holy soil enriched with the odour of purity, and preceded by eight lilies of shining whiteness.  In His Love He willed to preserve her from the poisoned breath of the world—­hardly had her petals unfolded when this good Master transplanted her to the mountain of Carmel, Our Lady’s chosen garden.

And now, dear Mother, having summed up in a few words all that God’s goodness has done for me, I will relate in detail the story of my childhood.  I know that, though to others it may seem wearisome, your motherly heart will find pleasure in it.  In the story of my soul, up to the time of my entry into the Carmel, there are three clearly marked periods:  the first, in spite of its shortness, is by no means the least rich in memories.

It extends from the dawn of reason to the death of my dearly loved Mother; in other words, till I was four years and eight months old.  God, in His goodness, did me the favour of awakening my intelligence very early, and He has imprinted the recollections of my childhood so deeply in my memory that past events seem to have happened but yesterday.  Without doubt He wished to make me know and appreciate the Mother He had given me.  Alas!  His Divine Hand soon took her from me to crown her in Heaven.

All my life it has pleased Him to surround me with affection.  My first recollections are of loving smiles and tender caresses; but if He made others love me so much, He made me love them too, for I was of an affectionate nature.

You can hardly imagine how much I loved my Father and Mother, and, being very demonstrative, I showed my love in a thousand little ways, though the means I employed make me smile now when I think of them.

Dear Mother, you have given me the letters which my Mother wrote at this time to Pauline, who was at school at the Visitation Convent at Le Mans.  I remember perfectly the events they refer to, but it will be easier for me simply to quote some passages, though these charming letters, inspired by a Mother’s love, are too often full of my praises.

In proof of what I have said about my way of showing affection for my parents, here is an example:  “Baby is the dearest little rogue; she comes to kiss me, and at the same time wishes me to die.  ’Oh, how I wish you would die, dear Mamma,’ she said, and when she was scolded she was quite astonished, and answered:  ’But I want you to go to Heaven, and you say we must die to go there’; and in her outburst of affection for her Father she wishes him to die too.  The dear little thing will hardly leave me, she follows me everywhere, but likes going into the garden best; when I am not there she refuses to stay, and cries so much that they are obliged to bring her back.  She will not even go upstairs alone without calling me at each step, ‘Mamma!  Mamma!’ and if I forget to answer ‘Yes, darling!’ she waits where she is, and will not move.”