Like her Divine Master, she passed through the world doing good; like Him, she had been forgotten and unknown, and now, still following in His Footsteps, she was to climb the hill of Calvary.  Accustomed to see her always suffering, yet always joyous and brave, Mother Prioress, doubtless inspired by God, allowed her to take part in the Community exercises, some of which tired her extremely.  At night, she would courageously mount the stairs alone, pausing at each step to take breath.  It was with difficulty that she reached her cell, and then in so exhausted a state, that sometimes, as she avowed later, it took her quite an hour to undress.  After all this exertion it was upon a hard pallet that she took her rest.  Her nights, too, were very bad, and when asked if she would not like someone to be near her in her hours of pain, she replied:  “Oh, no! on the contrary, I am only too glad to be in a cell away from my Sisters, that I may not be heard.  I am content to suffer alone—­as soon as I am pitied and loaded with attentions, my happiness leaves me.”

What strength of soul these words betray!  Where we find sorrow she found joy.  What to us is to hard to bear—­being overlooked and ignored by creatures—­became to her a source of delight.  And her Divine Spouse knew well how to provide that bitter joy she found so sweet.  Painful remedies had often to be applied.  One day, when she had suffered from them more than usual, she was resting in her cell during recreation, and overheard a Sister in the kitchen speaking of her thus:  “Soeur Therese will not live long, and really sometimes I wonder what our Mother Prioress will find to say about her when she dies.[5] She will be sorely puzzled, for this little Sister, amiable as she is, has certainly never done anything worth speaking about.”  The Infirmarian, who had also overheard the remark, turned to Therese and said:  “If you relied upon the opinion of creatures you would indeed be disillusioned today.”  “The opinion of creatures!” she replied; “happily God has given me the grace to be absolutely indifferent to that.  Let me tell you something which showed me, once and for all, how much it is worth.  A few days after my Clothing, I went to our dear Mother’s room, and one of the Sisters who happened to be there, said on seeing me:  ’Dear Mother, this novice certainly does you credit.  How well she looks!  I hope she may be able to observe the Rule for many years to come.’  I was feeling decidedly pleased at this compliment when another Sister came in, and, looking at me, said:  ’Poor little Soeur Therese, how very tired you seem!  You quite alarm me.  If you do not soon improve, I am afraid you will not be able to keep the Rule very long.’  I was then only sixteen, but this little incident made such an impression on me, that I never again set store on the varying opinion of creatures.”