One autumn evening in the year 1877, a train from Alencon drew up at the station of Lisieux.

A cab was soon seen jolting over the ill-paved streets, passing by the old Norman houses, the picturesque medieval appearance of which gives the town a poetic touch in striking contrast to the black smoke rising from the tall factory chimneys. The cab stopped at the Place St. Pierre near the ancient Cathedral of the same name. A few inquisitive heads appeared at the windows, and some loiterers stood still to look at the newcomers.
 
The first to alight was a man about fifty. A little girl jumped out after him, and put her hand confidingly in his. A tall brown-haired girl came next followed by another, small and frail, and two younger children. They formed a charming group, but the shyness visible on all the young faces, together with their deep mourning, made the passersby look at them sympathetically and say to one another: "Poor children! they have probably just lost their mother."

The door of the house before which this interesting family had alighted now opened, and two little girls  rushed out, followed more sedately by their parents. For a few moments nothing was to be heard but delighted exclamations from the children, and the more sober greetings of their elders.

You w i l l easily have recognized the family I have described. The tall white-haired gentleman is Monsieur Martin, the father of Therese. But perhaps you would like to have a few more details about his children.

Marie, the eldest, was then in her eighteenth year. Hers was a sunny and affectionate nature. She was tenderly devoted to her sisters, who loved her dearly in  return. Her father called her his "Diamond," because she was always sparkling with fun and originality.

Pauline, aged sixteen, had just left school. She was shy and gentle, and her father's name for her was "Precious Pearl." But beneath her sweetness and her retiring ways was hidden remarkable force of will and judgment unusually well balanced.  Marie, who since  her mother's death had become mistress of the house, although herself possessing rare gifts of mind and heart, often had recourse to Pauline's advice in domestic affairs.

After Pauline came Leonie, aged thirteen. She too was gentle and retiring, her loving nature prompting her to constant unselfishness and self-effacement.

Celine was just eight, and somewhat shy, though her eyes danced with mischief, and she was full of life and spirits.

Therese, the little fair-haired Queen, was five. She won all hearts by her charming ways and her bright smile.

The four that came out to welcome the newcomers were Monsieur Guerin, brother-in-law of Monsieur Martin, his wife, and their two little daughters. Jeanne, the elder, a very intelligent child, was about the same age as Celine. Dark-eyed Marie, two years older than Therese, was a great rogue, and something of a tomboy.

This was the family which was henceforward to play so large a part in the life of Therese.
A printable file of this chapter as well as a coloring picture can be found below:

Although Therese was only four, she knew that Heaven is our true home, and that in this world we cannot have everything we want. She knew what it means to be separated from those we love, for she sorely missed her sister Pauline, who was a boarder at the Visitation Convent of Le Mans. Poor little Therese was often to be seen on the balcony outside her room, gazing wistfully towards the station. Once Marie, finding her there, said:

"What are you doing, Therese?"

"I am looking to see if Pauline is coming back," was the answer.

But this separation was only a shadow of that which was to come a few months later, when Our Lord took from the children their pious and devoted mother.

During the illness of Madame Martin, Therese and Celine were often sent to spend the day with a friend. Instead of this being a pleasant change, it only distressed and troubled them. They instinctively clung to each other, as if oppressed with the knowledge that something very sad was happening at home.

One morning as they were on their way to their friend's house, Celine suddenly remembered that they had not said their prayers. She whispered to her little sister:

"Must we tell that we haven't said our prayers?"

"Oh, yes!" came the unhesitating reply.

On their arrival, therefore, Celine timidly told the lady, who took them to a big room and left them alone. Then for the first time it flashed on poor Therese what the loss of a mother means, and in a storm of grief she sobbed out:

"Oh, it's not like our mamma! She always heard us say our prayers!"
 
Madame Martin died on August 28, 1877. Therese was present when her mother received Extreme Unction; she heard her father's stifled sobs, and when all was over was lifted up to kiss her mother's icy forehead. She saw, too, the empty coffin which had been placed upright in the passage. These impressions were never effaced from her mind.

When the funeral was over, the five orphaned children returned to the desolate home. They were gazing at each other in awestruck silence when the nurse, turning pityingly to the two younger ones, exclaimed:

"Poor little things! you have no mother now!"

At once Celine threw herself into Marie's arms, crying out:

"You shall be my mother!"

It might have been expected that Therese, who always followed her sister's example, would have imitated her in this, particularly as Marie was her godmother. But it occurred to her that Pauline might be hurt at not having a little girl too, so she looked at her lovingly and exclaimed in her turn:

"And Pauline will be my mother."

Monsieur Martin bore his great loss with perfect resignation, forgetting his own sorrow that he might devote himself to his little motherless daughters.

Being uncertain what to do for the best, he consulted his friends. Some advised him to remain in Alencon; others suggested that he should send his children to a boarding-school; others, again, urged him to take them to live near their mother's family. The thought of leaving a place so full of tender memories as Alencon was very painful to him. His business was there, and he had many devoted friends. Moreover, outside the town, he had built himself a charming little country house, where for many years he had spent happy holidays with his children.

He did not, however, hesitate long. His brother-in-law, Monsieur Guerin, lived in Lisieux, and he decided to settle in the same town.

A printable file of this chapter can be found below as well as a coloring picture.

 
OUR Lord rewarded Therese for her sacrifices by giving her great self-control. One Sunday she had been for a walk in the fields, and had gathered an armful of daisies, poppies, cornflowers, and ears of golden corn. She came home flushed with pleasure, and was just beginning to arrange her flowers, when her grandmother asked for them for her altar. Therese gave them all up one by one. She was ready to cry, though only Celine, who knew her so well, saw this, for Therese did not show how much she minded. But when Celine questioned her afterwards, she owned what a big "act" she had had to make to let all her flowers be taken from her.

One might almost say that from the dawn of reason Therese had acquired this habit of giving in without grumbling or asking for anything back. Her natural character would have been a very difficult one had she not overcome herself early. She was so lively and restless that it was hard for her to apply her mind to anything, or to stay still for two minutes together, and all her mother's energy was needed to teach her the alphabet. When lesson-time drew near, she used to hide, but after a while she was sorry for this, and allowed herself to be kept a prisoner on her mother's knee, while she tried to understand and to repeat the name of the letter pointed out to her in the big book. Her sisters loved to listen to her, and her father would smile over his newspaper, showing plainly that he too was listening to the answers of his little Queen, and was interested in her progress.

Besides being impetuous, Therese was naturally inclined to be very obstinate, as the following incident will show. One day her mother said to her:
 
"Therese darling, if you will kiss the ground I will give you a halfpenny."

In those days a halfpenny was a fortune to her, but, holding herself erect, she promptly answered:
 
"No, thank you, Mamma; I would rather go without the halfpenny!"

Sooner than make this little act of humility she preferred to lose the promised reward. With such a character, the child might have grown up proud and selfish. She herself tells us that had she not been brought up carefully she might have become very wicked, and perhaps have lost her soul. But she had so true a sense of right and wrong that it was enough to tell her once:

"That is not right, it hurts Our Lord," and she never wanted to do it again.

About this time, Therese had a dream which showed her that a good child is an object of terror to the demons, who fly from it angry and humbled. One night she dreamt that she was walking alone in the garden, when, all at once, she saw near the arbor two ugly little devils dancing on a barrel of lime, in spite of the heavy irons attached to their feet. At first they glared at her with flaming eyes; then, as if seized with sudden terror, they jumped quick as lightning into the barrel, came out somehow at the other end, and hid themselves in the laundry, which opened into the garden. Finding them so cowardly, Therese overcame her fear and went to the window to see what they were going to do. The wretched little demons were running about on the tables, not knowing how to escape her gaze. Now and then they timidly approached the window, but finding her still there they scampered off, looking the picture of misery.

A deep truth lies hidden in this dream. The devils are mere cowards who can do nothing to a soul determined to stay in a state of grace.
 
Perhaps you think that Therese was too pious to care for fun? On the contrary, she was always bright and happy. She loved the country, the tall trees, the flowers, and the little birds in their nests. She was a splendid runner for her age, and enjoyed nothing so much as swinging. It used to terrify her mother to see her go so high, but Therese herself was absolutely fearless, and shouted with delight.
 
As soon as her father came home in the evening she would rush to meet him, and seat herself on his foot. He would carry her about in this fashion through house and garden. Then, lifting her high in the air, he would put her on his shoulder and set her down at last with a big kiss.
A printable file of this chapter can be found below as well as a coloring picture.

Therese was three and a half years younger than Celine, but she was remarkably intelligent, and in spite of the difference in age, the little sisters soon became close friends.  Indeed, as Therese once said, giving Celine a hug: “We are like our little white chicks; we can’t be separated.”

She was thinking of two pet bantams, given them by the nurse, who were never seen apart.

Their mother used to say that she had never known two children so devoted to each other.  They often had really spiritual talks together, in which Therese always took the lead.  One day Celine, who was then six and a half, put the following question:

“How can God be in such a tiny host?”  Therese, a baby of three, answered promptly, “That’s not at all wonderful, because He is Almighty.”  “And what does Almighty mean?” continued Celine.  “It means,” replied Therese, “that he can do whatever He likes.” Her mother and sisters were astonished at these ready answers, especially as they had no recollection of ever having taught them to her.

Another time the two children were sitting together in the garden having an animated conversation in which the word “acts” constantly recurred.  This word puzzled an old lady who lived next door, and who happened to be sitting at her window.  “Acts, acts!” she repeated; “what do they mean?”  Tired at last of listening, she hurried downstairs to ask Louise, their nurse, what they meant by “acts.”

I do not know what Louise told her, or if she knew any more about it than old Madame Battoir herself.  But you, children, shall hear the meaning of this mysterious word.

We must learn to make little sacrifices even in those things which are allowed us.  In this way we strengthen our will to refuse ourselves the things that are forbidden.  This is called making acts of virtue.  For example, if a boy does not answer back when he is corrected; if he obeys promptly when he has been told to do something; if he shares with his friends or with the poor, any little presents he had bee given; if he speaks kindly to those in trouble; if he tries not to look about in church; if he gives in to brothers, sisters, and playfellows, instead of always wanting to be first, that boy is making “acts” of virtue.

This is what Celine and Therese were discussing so earnestly.  They wanted to make many “acts,” and offer them to the Holy Child.  To increase the number and to be able to keep count, they had a special rosary with beads which could be moved up and down.  Each little sacrifice was marked by pulling a bead along the string.  Therese delighted in this, and was continually to be seen putting her hand in her pocked to count a fresh “act.”