Shortly before Sister St. Peter became quite bedridden, it was necessary every evening, at ten minutes to six, for someone to leave meditation and take her to the refectory.  It cost me a good deal to offer my services, for I knew the difficulty, or I should say the impossibility, of pleasing the poor invalid.  But I did not want to lose such a good opportunity, for I recalled Our Lord’s words:  “As long as you did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to Me."[11] I therefore humbly offered my aid.  It was not without difficulty I induced her to accept it, but after considerable persuasion I succeeded.  Every evening, when I saw her shake her sand-glass, I understood that she meant:  “Let us go!” Summoning up all my courage I rose, and the ceremony began.  First of all, her stool had to be moved and carried in a particular way, and on no account must there be any hurry.  The solemn procession ensued.  I had to follow the good Sister, supporting her by her girdle; I did it as gently as possible, but if by some mischance she stumbled, she imagined I had not a firm hold, and that she was going to fall.  “You are going too fast,” she would say, “I shall fall and hurt myself!” Then when I tried to lead her more quietly:  “Come quicker . . .  I cannot feel you . . . you are letting me go!  I was right when I said you were too young to take care of me.”

When we reached the refectory without further mishap, more troubles were in store.  I had to settle my poor invalid in her place, taking great pains not to hurt her.  Then I had to turn back her sleeves, always according to her own special rubric, and after that I was allowed to go.

But I soon noticed that she found it very difficult to cut her bread, so I did not leave her till I had performed this last service.  She was much touched by this attention on my part, for she had not expressed any wish on the subject; it was by this unsought-for kindness that I gained her entire confidence, and chiefly because—­as I learnt later—­ at the end of my humble task I bestowed upon her my sweetest smile.

Dear Mother, it is long since all this happened, but Our Lord allows the memory of it to linger with me like a perfume from Heaven.  One cold winter evening, I was occupied in the lowly work of which I have just spoken, when suddenly I heard in the distance the harmonious strains of music outside the convent walls.  I pictured a drawing-room, brilliantly lighted and decorated, and richly furnished.  Young ladies, elegantly dressed, exchanged a thousand compliments, as is the way of the world.  Then I looked on the poor invalid I was tending.  Instead of sweet music I heard her complaints, instead of rich gilding I saw the brick walls of our bare cloister, scarcely visible in the dim light.  The contrast was very moving.  Our Lord so illuminated my soul with the rays of truth, before which the pleasures of the world are but as darkness, that for a thousand years of such worldly delights, I would not have bartered even the ten minutes spent in my act of charity.