Before allowing a ray of hope to shine on my soul, Our Lord deigned to send me another most painful trial which lasted for three days.  Never had I understood so well the bitter grief of Our Lady and St. Joseph when they were searching the streets of Jerusalem for the Divine Child.  I seemed to be in a frightful desert, or rather, my soul was like a frail skiff, without a pilot, at the mercy of the stormy waves.  I knew that Jesus was there asleep in my little boat, but how could I see Him while the night was so dark?  If the storm had really broken, a flash of lightning would perhaps have pierced the clouds that hung over me:  even though it were but a passing ray, it would have enabled me to catch a momentary glimpse of the Beloved of my heart—­but this was denied me.  Instead, it was night, dark night, utter desolation, death!  Like my Divine Master in the Agony in the Garden, I felt that I was alone, and found no comfort on earth or in Heaven.

Nature itself seemed to share my bitter sadness, for during these three days there was not a ray of sunshine and the rain fell in torrents.  I have noticed again and again that in all the important events of my life nature has reflected my feelings.  When I wept, the skies wept with me; when I rejoiced, no cloud darkened the blue of the heavens.  On the fourth day, a Saturday, I went to see my uncle.  What was my surprise when I found his attitude towards me entirely changed!  He invited me into his study, a privilege I had not asked for; then, after gently reproaching me for being a little constrained with him, he told me that the miracle of which he had spoken was no longer needed.  He had prayed God to guide his heart aright, and his prayer had been heard.  I felt as if I hardly knew him, he seemed so different.  He embraced me with fatherly affection, saying with much feeling:  “Go in peace, my dear child, you are a privileged little flower which Our Lord wishes to gather.  I will put no obstacle in the way.”

Joyfully I went home. . . .  The clouds had quite disappeared from the sky, and in my soul also dark night was over.  Jesus had awakened to gladden my heart.  I no longer heard the roar of the waves.  Instead of the bitter wind of trial, a light breeze swelled my sail, and I fancied myself safe in port.  Alas! more than one storm was yet to rise, sometimes even making me fear that I should be driven, without hope of return, from the shore which I longed to reach.

I had obtained my uncle’s consent, only to be told by you, dear Mother, that the Superior of the Carmelites would not allow me to enter till I was twenty-one.  No one had dreamt of this serious opposition, the hardest of all to overcome.  And yet, without losing courage, I went with Papa to lay my request before him.  He received me very coldly, and could not be induced to change his mind.  We left him at last with a very decided “No.”  “Of course,” he added, “I am only the Bishop’s delegate; if he allows you to enter, I shall have nothing more to say.”