In the first place, my soul had for its daily food the bread of spiritual dryness.  Then, too, dear Mother, Our Lord allowed you, unconsciously, to treat me very severely.  You found fault with me whenever you met me.  I remember once I had left a cobweb in the cloister, and you said to me before the whole community:  “It is easy to see that our cloisters are swept by a child of fifteen.  It is disgraceful!  Go and sweep away that cobweb, and be more careful in future.”

On the rare occasions when I spent an hour with you for spiritual direction, you seemed to be scolding me nearly all the time, and what pained me most of all was that I did not see how to correct my faults:  for instance, my slow ways and want of throughness in my duties, faults which you were careful to point out.

One day it occurred to me that you would certainly prefer me to spend my free time in work instead of in prayer, as was my custom; so I plied my needle industriously without even raising my eyes.  No one ever knew of this, as I wished to be faithful to Our Lord and do things solely for Him to see.

When I was a postulant our Mistress used to send me every afternoon at half-past four to weed the garden.  This was a real penance, the more so, dear Mother, because I was almost sure to meet you on the way, and once you remarked:  “Really, this child does absolutely nothing.  What are we to think of a novice who must have a walk every day?” And yet, dear Mother, how grateful I am to you for giving me such a sound and valuable training.  It was an inestimable grace.  What should I have become, if, as the world outside believed, I had been but the pet of the Community?  Perhaps, instead of seeing Our Lord in the person of my superiors, I should only have considered the creature, and my heart, which had been so carefully guarded in the world, would have been ensnared by human affection in the cloister.  Happily, your motherly prudence saved me from such a disaster.

And not only in this matter, but in other and more bitter trials, I can truly say that Suffering opened her arms to me from the first, and I took her to my heart.  In the solemn examination before my profession I declared—­as was customary—­the reason of my entry into the Carmel:  “I have come to save souls, and especially to pray for Priests.”  One cannot attain the end without adopting the means, and as Our Lord made me understand that it was by the Cross He would give me souls, the more crosses I met with, the stronger grew my attraction to suffering.  For five years this way was mine, but I alone knew it; this was precisely the flower I wished to offer to Jesus, a hidden flower which keeps its perfume only for Heaven.

Two months after my entry Father Pichon was surprised at the workings of grace in my soul; he thought my piety childlike and my path an easy one.  My conversation with this good Father would have brought me great comfort, had it not been for the extreme difficulty I found in opening my heart.  Nevertheless I made a general confession, and after it he said to me:  “Before God, the Blessed Virgin, and Angels, and all the Saints, I declare that you have never committed a mortal sin.  Thank God for the favours He has so freely bestowed on you without any merit on your part.”