As time went on, the tide of suffering rose higher and higher, and she became so weak, that she was unable to make the slightest movement without assistance.  Even to hear anyone whisper increased her discomfort; and the fever and oppression were so extreme that it was with the greatest difficulty she was able to articulate a word.  And yet a sweet smile was always on her lips.  Her only fear was lest she should give her Sisters any extra trouble, and until two days before her death she would never allow any one to remain with her during the night.  However, in spite of her entreaties, the Infirmarian would visit her from time to time.  On one occasion she found Therese with hands joined and eyes raised to Heaven.  “What are you doing?” she asked; “you ought to try and go to sleep.”  “I cannot, Sister, I am suffering too much, so I am praying. . . .”  “And what do you say to Jesus?” “I say nothing—­I only love Him!”

“Oh! how good God is!” . . . she sometimes exclaimed.  “Truly He must be very good to give me strength to bear all I have to suffer.”  One day she said to the Mother Prioress:  “Mother, I would like to make known to you the state of my soul; but I cannot, I feel too much overcome just now.”  In the evening Therese sent her these lines, written in pencil with a trembling hand: 

“O my God! how good Thou art to the little Victim of Thy Merciful Love!  Now, even when Thou joinest these bodily pains to those of my soul, I cannot bring myself to say:  ’The anguish of death hath encompassed me.’[13] I rather cry out in my gratitude:  ’I have gone down into the valley of the shadow of death, but I fear no evil, because Thou, O Lord, art with me.’"[14]

Her little Mother said to her:  “Some think that you are afraid of death.”  “That may easily come to pass,” she answered; “I do not rely on my own feelings, for I know how frail I am.  It will be time enough to bear that cross if it comes, meantime I wish to rejoice in my present happiness.  When the Chaplain asked me if I was resigned to die, I answered:  ’Father, I need rather to be resigned to live—­I feel nothing but joy at the thought of death.’  Do not be troubled, dear Mother, if I suffer much and show no sign of happiness at the end.  Did not Our Lord Himself die ’a Victim of Love,’ and see how great was His Agony!”

. . . . . . .

At last dawned the eternal day.  It was Thursday, September 30, 1897.  In the morning, the sweet Victim, her eyes fixed on Our Lady’s statue, spoke thus of her last night on earth:  “Oh! with what fervour I have prayed to her! . . .  And yet it has been pure agony, without a ray of consolation. . . .  Earth’s air is failing me:  when shall I breathe the air of Heaven?”

For weeks she had been unable to raise herself in bed, but, at half-past two in the afternoon, she sat up and exclaimed:  “Dear Mother, the chalice is full to overflowing!  I could never have believed that it was possible to suffer so intensely. . . .  I can only explain it by my extreme desire to save souls. . . .”  And a little while after:  “Yes, all that I have written about my thirst for suffering is really true!  I do not regret having surrendered myself to Love.”