On the day when this revered Mother ended her exile, I received a very special grace.  It was the first time I had assisted at a death-bed, yet though the sight enchanted me by its beauty, my two hours of watching had made me very drowsy.  I was grieved at this, but, at the moment her soul took its flight to Heaven, my feelings were completely changed.  In an instant I was filled with an indescribable joy and fervour, as if the soul of our blessed Foundress made me share in the happiness she already enjoyed—­for I am quite convinced she went straight to Heaven.  I had said to her some time previously:  “You will not go to Purgatory, dear Mother.”  “I hope not,” she answered sweetly.  Certainly God would not disappoint a hope so full of humility; and the proof that He did not, lies in the many favours we have received.

The Sisters hastened to claim something belonging to our beloved Mother, and you know what a precious relic is mine.  During her agony I had noticed a tear glistening like a beautiful diamond.  That tear, the last she shed on this earth, did not fall, I still saw it shining when her body was exposed in the choir.  When evening came, I made bold to approach unseen, with a little piece of linen, and I now have the happiness of possessing the last tear of a Saint.

I attach no importance to my dreams, and indeed, they seldom have any special meaning, though I do often wonder how it is that, as I think of God all the day, my mind does not dwell on Him more in my sleep.  Generally I dream of the woods and the flowers, the brooks and the sea, and nearly always of pretty children; or I chase birds and butterflies such as I have never seen.  But, if my dreams are sometimes poetical, they are never mystical.

However, one night after Mother Genevieve’s death, I had a more consoling one.  I thought I saw her giving to each of us something that had belonged to herself.  When my turn came, her hands were empty, and I was afraid I was not to receive anything; but she looked at me lovingly, and said three times:  “To you I leave my heart.”

About a month after that seraphic death, towards the close of the year 1891, an epidemic of influenza raged in the Community; I only had it slightly and was able to be about with two other Sisters.  It is impossible to imagine the heartrending state of our Carmel throughout those days of sorrow.  The worst sufferers were nursed by those who could hardly drag themselves about; death was all around us, and, when a Sister had breathed her last, we had to leave her instantly.

My nineteenth birthday was saddened by the death of Mother Sub-Prioress; I assisted with the infirmarian during her agony, and two more deaths quickly followed.  I now had to do the Sacristy work single-handed, and I wonder sometimes how I was equal to it all.