My Father was much distressed to find me coming from the audience in tears; he had passed out before me, and so did not know anything about my request.  The Vicar-General had shown him unusual kindness, presenting him to Leo XIII as the father of two Carmelites.  The Sovereign Pontiff, as a special sign of benevolence, had placed his hand on his head, thus appearing in the name of Christ Himself to mark him with a mysterious seal.  But now that this father of four Carmelites is in Heaven, it is no longer the hand of Christ’s Vicar which rests on his brow, prophesying his martyrdom:  it is the hand of the Spouse of Virgins, of the King of Heaven; and this Divine Hand will never be taken away from the head which it has blessed.

This trial was indeed a heavy one, but I must admit that in spite of my tears I felt a deep inward peace, for I had made every effort in my power to respond to the appeal of my Divine Master.  This peace, however, dwelt in the depths of my soul—­on the surface all was bitterness; and Jesus was silent—­absent it would seem, for nothing revealed that He was there.

On that day, too, the sun dared not shine, and the beautiful blue sky of Italy, hidden by dark clouds, mingled its tears with mine.  All was at an end.  My journey had no further charm for me since it had failed in its object.  It is true the Holy Father’s words:  “You will enter if it is God’s Will,” should have consoled me, they were indeed a prophecy.  In spite of all these obstacles, what God in His goodness willed, has come to pass.  He has not allowed His creatures to do what they will but only what He wills.  Sometime before this took place I had offered myself to the Child Jesus to be His little plaything.  I told Him not to treat me like one of those precious toys which children only look at and dare not touch, but to treat me like a little ball of no value, that could be thrown on the ground, kicked about, pierced, left in a corner, or pressed to His Heart just as it might please Him.  In a word I wished to amuse the Holy child and to let Him play with me as He fancied.  Here indeed He was answering my prayer.  In Rome Jesus pierced His little plaything.  He wanted to see what was inside . . . and when satisfied, He let it drop and went to sleep.  What was He doing during His sweet slumber, and what became of the ball thus cast on one side?  He dreamed that He was still at play, that He took it up or threw it down, that He rolled it far away, but at last He pressed it to His Heart, nor did He allow it again to slip from His tiny Hand.  Dear Mother, you can imagine the sadness of the little ball lying neglected on the ground!  And yet it continued to hope against hope.

After our audience my Father went to call on Brother Simeon—­the founder and director of St. Joseph’s College—­and there he met Father Reverony.  He reproached him gently for not having helped me in my difficult task, and told the whole story to Brother Simeon.  The good old man listened with much interest and even made notes, saying with evident feeling:  “This kind of thing is not seen in Italy.”