IMMEDIATELY after this marvellous recovery, the whole family went on a visit to friends at Alencon. During her stay, Therese was kissed and made much of by everyone, and provided with new amusements every day. At ten years old the heads of little girls are easily turned, but Therese's illness had made her more thoughtful. She understood better now, the vanity of earthly things, and in spite of the fun time she was having at Alencon, her one desire was to return to "Les Buissonnets" to prepare for her First Communion. How she longed to receive Our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament!

When quite a tiny child, if she saw her sisters going to Midnight Mass, she would beg them to take her with them, so that she too might receive "little Jesus." Her delight was unbounded when Celine made her First Communion. Therese had still four years to wait before the great day came for her, but she did not think it was too long to get ready for Our Lord. She began her preparation with Celine, and shared the instructions, given by Pauline, who had not yet entered Carmel.

Therese's longing to receive Jesus grew so intense that, happening one day to meet the Bishop of Bayeux in the street, she forgot her natural shyness and was going to run up to him to ask if she might make her First Communion before the fixed age, when Marie held her back. Her elder sister wished to teach her not to ask so long months had to pass before her desire was realized.

She used the time well, and made a number of little sacrifices.  These she offered to the Holy Child as so many flowers which were to become a soft cradle for Him to rest in when He visited her heart. A few months before her First Communion, she counted these "acts" and marked them down in a little book which Pauline had sent her from the Carmelite convent. Among the "acts" there was one very hard one which Therese had to make everyday. She was so fond of reading that she could have spent the whole day with a book, but her sisters had decided that half an hour a day was quite enough therefore, as the time was up, she would promptly shut the book even if she were in the middle of a most interesting passage.
 
She did many other things to please Our Lord. Often, at the school recreation, she would give up her favorite games and play those which the others liked. At table, if she did not care for what was put before her, she ate it without making any fuss, and never grumbled if she did not get what she wanted. One day her father told Celine that he would allow her to have drawing lessons. Then, turning to Therese, who had long wanted to learn drawing, he added: "And what about you, little Queen? Would you like to have lessons too?" Before she had time to answer an eager "Yes," Marie said:

"It would not be worth while; she has not the same taste as Celine."

Therese need only have said a word and her request would have been granted, but she wanted to give Our Lord a very big "act," and so she kept silence. . .

When Pauline entered Carmel, Marie became Therese's new "little mother." Every day she would take Therese on her knee and speak to her about her First Communion. She told her that all the happiness of her life on earth would depend upon that great event. One evening, she spoke so earnestly about the valueof suffering that all at once Therese felt a great desire to suffer much, that she might give God every possible proof of love. She used to meditate a great deal, and would often hide herself in a corner of her room, which she could shut off with the bed-curtains, and there reflect on the swift passing of this life and on Eternity. She called this "thinking." "I am only just eleven," she would say to herself, "yet already I have lost my mother, Pauline has gone away, and soon my other sisters will go too. Life is only a dream, a kind of anteroom where we get ready to appear before Our Lord. I will not waste my time on silly trifles, but I will try and have my soul very beautiful when my turn comes."

Such serious thoughts did not make Therese any less a child. It is true she had become more reserved since her mother's death, and she was so extremely sensitive that the smallest thing would make her cry. But she was ashamed of this weakness and set herself bravely to fight against it and to strengthen her will.

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There had been for many years in the Martin family a statue of Our Lady, which they valued very highly. Where it originally came from is not known, but it had been given to Monsieur Martin, when a boy, by an old lady, who had the reputation of being a saint.
 
It was not like an ordinary plaster statue, and though not very big, was so heavy that even a strong person found it difficult to carry. Morning and night prayers were always said before the statue, to which the whole family had a great devotion. In fact, the hands had been kissed so often that some of the fingers had had to be replaced several times.

Every year when the month of May came round, the children would gather flowers in the country, and Our Lady's altar was beautifully decorated with snowy hawthorn branches. Little Therese was delighted at this; she used to clap her hands and jump for joy as she looked at the statue.

Madame Martin always said that no one would ever know all she owed to Our Lady, and after her death, when the family were moving to Lisieux, their first thought was for this great treasure. They took it with them to "Les Buissonnets," and it was placed in the room in which they assembled every day for prayers. Therese occupied this room all the time she was ill, and the statue stood beside her bed on an altar decorated with blue hangings. When the pain was less acute, she loved to weave garlands of daisies and forget-me-nots for Our Lady, and she often looked at the statue and prayed to be cured.

One day, in the month of May, when she was very much worse, her father came into the room in great distress. He gave Marie some money, and told her to write to Paris for a Novena of Masses to be said at the shrine of Our Lady of Victories to obtain the cure of his poor little Queen.

During this Novena, on Sunday, May 13, 1883, Therese became so ill that she did not even recognize her sisters. Marie felt sure she was dying, and throwing herself on her knees before the statue she implored Our Lady's help with the fervor and insistence of a mother pleading for her child's life. Leonie and Celine joined their prayers with hers, and the sick child begged her Heavenly Mother to have pity on her. It was a united cry of faith which forced the gates of Heaven.

Suddenly, the statue seemed to be alive. . . . Our Lady came towards the bed. Her face was indescribably beautiful, but it was her wonderful smile which filled Therese with joy. Like the warm rays of the sun after; a storm, it shone on the little sufferer. At once all her pain and weariness vanished, and she knew she was cured.

A printable file of this chapter can be found below.
 

THERESE was soon to be separated from the "little mother" to whose tender guidance she  owed so much.   One day Marie and Pauline were talking quietly together at the far end of the room in which Therese was doing her lessons, when all at once Marie unconsciously raised her voice, and Therese caught these startling words:

"Oh, darling, we have never been separated from each other before! What shall I do without you when you have gone to Carmel?"

"Don't talk like that," replied Pauline; "you will break my heart! You know that it is only for Our Lord's sake that I am going away. I should never, never, have courage to leave you all if I were not going to be a nun. You will have to console Baby," she added in a lower voice, with a glance at Therese; "she will feel it dreadfully, she is so affectionate!"

There was a short silence, then Pauline went on: "I have just seen Mother Prioress and probably I shall enter next month." At these words, Therese threw down her pen and, burying her face in her hands, burst into a storm of sobs.

Realizing that she had heard everything, Pauline took her on her lap to try and comfort her. The child put her arms round her sister's neck and said through her tears:

"Oh, Pauline, you know you promised to wait for me, and to take me with you into a desert when I was grown up!"

From the time Therese was three years old, she had often heard people saying that Pauline would be a nun some day, and without understanding very well what it meant she had said to herself: "I will be a nun too."

Pauline had practically promised to wait till her "little girl" was old enough to go with her, and now she was going without even having told her! When the two were left alone, Pauline began to explain what the life was like in Carmel. She said that nowadays people could no longer go away into the wilderness to become hermits, but that in the Church there was an Order whose members could live a hermit's life in the midst of the world. Strictly enclosed convents had taken the place of deserts. No stranger was ever admitted within their walls, and even the nuns' relations could only see them through an iron grille. Each nun had her own little cell, in which she lived alone, working and praying. Her bed was a straw mattress on hard boards; two little wooden benches served as chair and table; a water-jug and a lantern completed the furniture of this strange room. The food of the Carmelites was in keeping with this austere dwelling. They never ate meat, but had vegetables instead. The description fired Therese with enthusiasm. This, she thought, was all we could want; the less we have, the happier we must be. The conversation made a deep impression on her, and a few days afterwards, when thinking over what Pauline had said, it flashed upon her that Carmel was the desert where God wanted her to go, and she made up her mind to be a Carmelite. She told Pauline her desire, and Pauline promised to
take her to see Mother Prioress, to whom she could confide her secret. But to her great disappointment, Mother Prioress said that postulants of nine were rather too young to be received, and that Therese would have to wait till she was at least sixteen.

The dreaded day at last came when she was to part from her beloved Pauline. It was the second of October, 1882. While Monsieur Martin, accompanied by Marie and his brother-in-law, took Pauline to the convent, Therese, with Leonie, Celine, and her cousins, went to Mass with Madame Guerin. They were all crying so bitterly that everyone in the Church looked at them in astonishment. But that did not stop Therese's tears. Her grief was so great that she wondered how the sun could go on shining and how the birds could sing!

In the afternoon she went to see her "little mother," now Sister Agnes of Jesus. Her sorrow became still more intense when she realized that she could only speak to her sister through the grille! She had been accustomed to spend long hours alone with her beloved Pauline, telling her all her most precious secrets, how much she loved Our Lord, and how many "acts" she had made for Him. Now she understood that those happy times were gone for ever, and that Pauline would no longer be able to listen to her little confidences. In spite of the very deep suffering she endured, Therese tried hard to be sweet-tempered and good with everyone.

The strain told on her health. She began to suffer from a continuous headache, which she bore for several months without complaining. But it happened that while her father and elder sister were away from home, the pain in her head became very violent, and her uncle and aunt, with whom she was staying, telegraphed to Monsieur Martin to return. He came at once, to find his dear little Queen so ill that he thought she was dying. It was with great difficulty that they were able to take her home to "Les Buissonnets." For a long time she lay between life and death, and the doctors declared she could never recover.

Meanwhile, the time drew near when Sister Agnes of Jesus was to be clothed in the Carmelite habit. The family avoided talking of this event before the little invalid for fear of exciting her, for they took for granted she would not be able to go. But Therese was sure that God would allow her to see her darling Pauline on that great day. And contrary to all expectations, she was actually well enough to go to the ceremony. She not only saw her "little mother" in her beautiful bridal dress; she was allowed to sit on her knee to be kissed and given attention in the old way.
 
But on the very next day she had a serious relapse. All possible remedies were tried, with no effect. Marie nursed her with the most tender devotion, and rarely left her side. Leonie and Celine used to spend long hours with her, trying to amuse her, but nothing could rouse or interest Therese. It seemed as if a miracle alone could save her.

Therese was now eight and a half, and it was decided that she was old enough to go to school at the Benedictine Convent in Lisieux, where Leonie had just completed her studies.

Being advanced for her age, she was put in a class with children who were all older than herself. This gave her a certain standing with her companions, and often during recreation they would gather round her to listen to the stories she told them. One of the mistresses put a stop to this because recreation was the time to run about and play.
 
As Therese was always the first in the class, some of her classmates were jealous of her success, and paid her out by teasing her on every possible occasion. The poor little girl, who had been used to so much kindness at home, found it difficult to settle down at school, and such behavior on the part of her companions was not likely to make her feel happier. We might have thought that she would have appealed for protection to Celine, "the fearless," as she was called by her father. And Celine would certainly have stood up for her little sister. But Therese would never tell tales. She preferred to bear her troubles alone, and only cried when she was sure no one could see her, that her companions might not be scolded on her account.

We have seen that Therese had never known anything but the greatest tenderness and love at home. But she was never spoilt. On the contrary, she was brought up very strictly.
She and her sisters had always before them the example of their father, who was absolutely self-forgetful. His coolness and courage were invaluable in any crisis. On one occasion, when a house was on fire, he risked his life in saving people from the flames. Another time he rescued some young men from drowning, and once he was nearly drowned himself whilst saving the life of a man who was being sucked into a whirlpool. More than once, he interfered to stop a street-brawl in which knives were being freely used. In short, he was always the first to bring help where help was needed.An ardent patriot, it was a great sorrow that he had not been able to enlist during the war of 1870, though when the Prussians approached Alencon he went out several nights with the soldiers, at the imminent risk of being shot had he been taken by the enemy.

With such a father, there could be no fear that Therese would be brought up too indulgently.

Pauline had trained Therese not to be nervous. She used to send her at night to fetch something from the garden or from a distant room, and would take no excuses. After putting her to bed, she left her alone in the dark, though Therese slept in a big room some way from the others. The children had chocolate every morning for breakfast when they were little; but as they grew older they had soup instead, and chocolate only appeared on Sundays and feast-days. Marie used to give them lunch to take to school, but they had to make it last a certain number of days, or they went without. Other little girls brought cakes and sweets to eat during the morning, but Celine and Therese had to be content with a piece of dry bread till dinner-time.

If they did not get good marks at school, or if they were found fault with, it was never the mistresses who were blamed. Their authority was always upheld against their pupils. Nor did Therese always have her sisters on her side in her little difficulties. It once happened that she showed vexation because her nurse had teased her. Victoire was clearly in the wrong, yet it was Therese who had to beg pardon, that she might learn to behave respectfully towards servants.

In spite of this strict training, Therese once gave way to a very natural desire of being noticed. Her cousin, Marie Guerin, was always complaining of headaches, and on such occasions Marie's mother petted and coddled her. Now Therese often had a headache, but she never told anyone. Once, however, she thought she would make a fuss like Marie in order to get her share of sympathy.  Accordingly she curled herself up in an armchair in the corner of her aunt's drawing-room, whimpering:

"I've got such a headache!"

Everyone gathered round her, but it was so unlike her to complain that no one would believe she was only crying because of a headache, and instead of being comforted she was accused of telling stories, and of hiding the real cause of her tears. That was all Therese got for her pains, and she firmly resolved never to copy anyone again.
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