After five years of this heroic silence, Sister Agnes of Jesus was elected Prioress.  On the evening of the election Therese might well have rejoiced that henceforth she could speak freely to her “little Mother,” and, as of old, pour out her soul.  But sacrifice had become her daily food.  If she sought one favour more than another, it was that she might be looked on as the lowest and the least; and, among all the religious, not one saw less of the Mother Prioress.

She desired to live the life of Carmel with all the perfection required by St. Teresa, and, although a martyr to habitual dryness, her prayer was continuous.  On one occasion a novice, entering her cell, was struck by the heavenly expression of her countenance.  She was sewing industriously, and yet seemed lost in deep contemplation.  “What are you thinking of?” the young Sister asked.  “I am meditating on the ‘Our Father,’” Therese answered.  “It is so sweet to call God, ‘Our Father!’” . . . and tears glistened in her eyes.  Another time she said, “I cannot well see what more I shall have in Heaven than I have now; I shall see God, it is true, but, as to being with Him, I am that already even on earth.”

The flame of Divine Love consumed her, and this is what she herself relates:  “A few days after the oblation of myself to God’s Merciful Love, I was in the choir, beginning the Way of the Cross, when I felt myself suddenly wounded by a dart of fire so ardent that I thought I should die.  I do not know how to explain this transport; there is no comparison to describe the intensity of that flame.  It seemed as though an invisible force plunged me wholly into fire. . . .  But oh! what fire! what sweetness!”

When Mother Prioress asked her if this rapture was the first she had experienced, she answered simply:  “Dear Mother, I have had several transports of love, and one in particular during my Noviciate, when I remained for a whole week far removed from this world.  It seemed as though a veil were thrown over all earthly things.  But, I was not then consumed by a real fire.  I was able to bear those transports of love without expecting to see the ties that bound me to earth give way; whilst, on the day of which I now speak, one minute—­one second—­more and my soul must have been set free.  Alas!  I found myself again on earth, and dryness at once returned to my heart.”  True, the Divine Hand had withdrawn the fiery dart—­but the wound was unto death!

In that close union with God, Therese acquired a remarkable mastery over self.  All sweet virtues flourished in the garden of her soul, but do not let us imagine that these wondrous flowers grew without effort on her part.

“In this world there is no fruitfulness without suffering—­either physical pain, secret sorrow, or trials known sometimes only to God.  When good thoughts and generous resolutions have sprung up in our souls through reading the lives of the Saints, we ought not to content ourselves, as in the case of profane books, with paying a certain tribute of admiration to the genius of their authors—­we should rather consider the price which, doubtless, they have paid for that supernatural good they have produced."[1]