I was nearly three years old when my Mother wrote:  “Little Therese asked me the other day if she would go to Heaven.  ’Yes, if you are good,’ I told her.  ‘Oh, Mamma,’ she answered, ’then if I am not good, shall I go to Hell?  Well, you know what I will do—­I shall fly to you in Heaven, and you will hold me tight in your arms, and how could God take me away then?’ I saw that she was convinced that God could do nothing to her if she hid herself in my arms.”

“Marie loves her little sister very much; indeed she is a child who delights us all.  She is extraordinarily outspoken, and it is charming to see her run after me to confess her childish faults:  ’Mamma, I have pushed Celine; I slapped her once, but I’ll not do it again.’  The moment she has done anything mischievous, everyone must know.  Yesterday, without meaning to do so, she tore off a small piece of wall paper; you would have been sorry for her—­she wanted to tell her father immediately.  When he came home four hours later, everyone else had forgotten about it, but she ran at once to Marie saying:  ‘Tell Papa that I tore the paper.’  She waited there like a criminal for sentence; but she thinks she is more easily forgiven if she accuses herself.”

Papa’s name fills me with many happy memories.  Mamma laughingly said he always did whatever I wanted, but he answered:  “Well, why not?  She is the Queen!” Then he would lift me on to his shoulder, and caress me in all sorts of ways.  Yet I cannot say that he spoilt me.  I remember one day while I was swinging he called out as he passed:  “Come and kiss me, little Queen.”  Contrary to my usual custom, I would not stir, and answered pertly:  “You must come for it, Papa.”  He refused quite rightly, and went away.  Marie was there and scolded me, saying:  “How naughty to answer Papa like that!” Her reproof took effect; I got off the swing at once, and the whole house resounded with my cries.  I hurried upstairs, not waiting this time to call Mamma at each step; my one thought was to find Papa and make my peace with him.  I need not tell you that this was soon done.

I could not bear to think I had grieved my beloved parents, and I acknowledged my faults instantly, as this little anecdote, related by my Mother, will show:  “One morning before going downstairs I wanted to kiss Therese; she seemed to be fast asleep, and I did not like to wake her, but Marie said:  ’Mamma, I am sure she is only pretending.’  So I bent down to kiss her forehead, and immediately she hid herself under the clothes, saying in the tone of a spoilt child:  ‘I don’t want anyone to look at me.’  I was not pleased with her, and told her so.  A minute or two afterwards I heard her crying, and was surprised to see her by my side.  She had got out of her cot by herself, and had come downstairs with bare feet, stumbling over her long nightdress.  Her little face was wet with tears:  ‘Mamma,’ she said, throwing herself on my knee, ’I am sorry for being naughty—­forgive me!’ Pardon was quickly granted; I took the little angel in my arms and pressed her to my heart, smothering her with kisses.”