Monday, April 9, 1888, was the day fixed for Therese to enter Carmel.
     The evening before, there was a family gathering at "Les Buissonnets," and, as if to make the separation harder, it seemed to her that everyone was kinder than ever that night.
     The next morning, after saying a last good-bye to the dear home of her childhood, Therese, accompanied by her relations, set out for the convent. She herself was the only one who did not shed a tear, but as she led the way to the cloister door, her heart beat so violently that she wondered if she were going to die. After kissing her beloved Celine, she knelt down for her father's blessing and then the convent gates closed upon her. The nuns never forgot the impression made   them that day when they saw Therese come in, with such a heavenly expression on her face that she seemed like an angel in visible form.
     Everything in the convent delighted her, especially her little bare cell with its rough furniture and whitewashed walls. The joy she found in poverty was so great that she felt amply rewarded for all she had given up.
      While she was still a postulant she had the happiness of assisting at the Profession of her sister Marie, now Sister Marie of the Sacred Heart. Being the youngest of the Community, Therese was chosen to place the crown of white roses on her sister's head, according to Carmelite custom. It was fitting that she should render this honor to Marie, her godmother, who had shared with Pauline the duty of bringing her up, and to whom she owed so much.
     A little later, on January 10, 1889, there was another ceremony, and Therese received the habit of Carmel. Sanctuary, saw through the large grille the "Little Queen" of a few moments before. She was much changed. Her hair had been cut off, and she wore a coarse robe of serge and a white veil. Her face was radiant with joy. She was a Carmelite at last.
      Eighteen months later, September 8, 1890, she made her vows and gave herself to Our Lord for ever. But that day her father was not there; he was too ill to come, and his absence was a bitter trial. She never saw him again, for he had to bear the cross of a painful illness for six long years before his death. Celine nursed him all the time with the utmost devotion. When her mission was finished, she, too, became a Carmelite, and was instructed in her new life by Therese.
     A year later, Marie Guerin, the "little hermit," joined her playmate in the "desert," and the game of their childhood became a reality. There is little to tell of the life of Therese in Carmel; its secrets are known to God alone. But this we can say—that she suffered much, because Our Lord gave her a large share in His Cross as He always does to His best friends. She had accustomed herself from babyhood to do God's Will rather than her own, so it is not difficult to imagine what she was like in the convent. The spirit in which she served God is best shown in her own words.
     "Oh, my dear Jesus," she said to Our Lord, "I can only prove my love for You by strewing flowers—that is, by never letting slip an opportunity of prayer, of self denial, of raising my heart to You. I wish to do my smallest actions for Your love. For Your sake, I wish to suffer and to rejoice: so shall I strew my flowers. I will sing though I have to gather my roses in the midst of thorns, and the longer and sharper the thorns, the sweeter shall grow my song."
     We have seen how Therese loved her father. She loved God in the same childlike way, never refusing Him anything, always trying to please Him. She thanked Him just as much for her sorrows as for her joys, because she was sure that whatever He sent was the best. She offered her heart to Him to receive the love which had been despised and rejected by
sinners.
     "Dearest Jesus," she would say," men do not love You, but I want to love You for them. Give me the love which they refuse, and thus You will be consoled for their ingratitude."     
     Our Lord is never outdone in generosity, and has paid in glory all she gave Him in love.
The reward was not long delayed. After eight years of religious life, Therese fell ill of consumption. It was a painful illness, but she bore her long sufferings with heroic patience. She received the Last Sacraments full of joy at the thought that her life on earth was drawing to a close, and that death was about to open to her the gates of eternal life, and realize her desire of making God better known and loved to the end of time.
     The happy day came at last. It was Thursday, September 30, 1897. As the Convent bell rang the evening Angelus, she fixed her eyes lovingly on the miraculous statue, which had been placed at the foot of her bed. Our Lady surely came again to smile on her, for Therese had so often said:
     "O thou who cam'st to smile on me in the morning of my life,Her last words were: "My God, I love Thee!" They were the faithful echo of her life of twenty-four years.
     As soon as she was dead, several wonderful things were said to have happened in the convent. A sick nun was cured by kissing her feet; others saw in the sky a ray of light and a luminous crown; the whole house was filled with mysterious perfumes. And all remarked that the face of their holy sister was lit up with a radiant smile, as if she already saw the myriad roses which she would rain on the earth, and the countless "little souls" who would follow her to Heaven, after having imitated her virtues.
     You may ask, children, why such power has been given to one whose life was so short and so simple. But when you hear the marvellous words which we have from her own lips—that "from the age of three" she "never refused God anything"—you will understand something of the extraordinary fidelity which God has crowned in the life of Saint Therese of Lisieux.
A printable file of this chapter as well as four lovely coloring pictures can be found below.

                                                                                                 JOURNEY TO ROME
 
     ON November 4, 1887, three days after the visit to Bayeux, Celine and Therese set out with their father for Rome. The first stopping-place was Paris. They saw all the wonderful sights of the capital, but nothing delighted Therese so much as the shrine of Our Lady of Victories. She prayed earnestly to her Blessed Mother, who had smiled on her in her childhood, and as we cannot love Our Lady without loving St. Joseph too, she put herself under his protection, asking him to take care of her as he had care of the Holy Child and His Mother during their life on earth.
     The travellers continued their journey through beautiful Switzerland, with its gigantic snow-capped mountains, its lakes and waterfalls, its pink heather and gorgeous sunsets. Then, crossing the Alps by the famous St. Gothard tunnel, they entered Italy. At Milan, Therese and Celine climbed to the top of the wonderful Cathedral. From Milan they went to Venice, and from there to Loretto, where the house of the Holy Family is honored.
     The following night they were awakened by the voices of the porters shouting: "Rome! Rome!" It was not a dream; they were in Rome at last. The two sisters visited all the monuments of the Eternal City, and were especially struck with the Coliseum and the Catacombs. The Catacombs are vast subterranean passages, where the early Christians used to hide from persecution, and where they buried their dead.
      The Coliseum is an immense arena built of stone, and large enough to hold thousands of spectators. The Romans came there to watch the Christians being devoured by wild beasts, or tortured in other horrible ways, because they would not give up their faith. Therese, who loved the martyrs, was very anxious to go down to a part of the arena which was closed to the public because the excavations then being carried on made the descent dangerous. But all the same, she and Celine darted forward in front of the guide, boldly crossed the barriers, and, clambering over the walls, which crumbled under their weight, succeeded in reaching the spot without any mishap. As Therese kissed the sacred ground on which the martyrs had shed their blood, she asked Our Lord that she, too, might be a martyr for His love.
      To return, they had to make a difficult ascent, but were soon back safe and sound with their father, who, seeing them so happy, had not the heart to scold them. He even seemed proud of their courage. They spent six days seeing the wonders of Rome.
     On the seventh day they were to have the great privilege of an audience with Leo XIII. Therese had been longing for it, and at the same time she dreaded it because of what she had planned to do. The audience began after the Pope's Mass. Dressed in black, with black mantillas, according to the etiquette prescribed, Celine and Therese joined the long line of pilgrims and advanced slowly through the great halls of the Vatican, till they came to a large room, hung with red tapestry, where Leo XIII was seated on a raised chair, surrounded by dignitaries of the Church. Therese felt her heart beat violently, and her nervousness increased when the Vicar-General of Bayeux, who was standing to the right of His Holiness, announced in a loud voice that no one was to speak to the Pope. She turned to her sister with an appealing glance. "Speak," was Celine's whispered reply.
     A moment later Therese found herself kneeling before the Holy Father. After she had kissed his foot and his extended hand, she raised her eyes and said imploringly:
     "Holy Father, I have a great favor to ask of you." The Pope bent his head, and his dark penetrating eyes seemed to read her very soul.
     "Holy Father," she continued, "in honor of your Jubilee, allow me to become a Carmelite when I am fifteen."
The Vicar-General, astonished and annoyed, interrupted:
     "Most Holy Father, this child wishes to join the Carmelites, and the Superiors are now considering the matter."
     "Well, my child," said His Holiness, "do as the Superiors shall decide."
Joining her hands and resting them on the Pope's knees, Therese made a last effort:
     "Holy Father, if you will only say yes, everyone else will agree." Leo XIII looked at her fixedly, and slowly and emphatically said:
     "Well, well, child, you shall enter if it be God's will." She was about to repeat her request when two of the noble guards made a sign for her to rise. The Pope held out his hand to her to kiss, and, blessing her, followed her with his eyes as she moved away. She left the audience-room in tears, and the whole of that day the fair Italian sky was veiled with dark clouds, and wept in sympathy with her. Her great plan had failed. But she had done her utmost to follow the call of God, and her soul was at peace. She remembered that she had long ago offered herself to the Holy Child to be His little "plaything." Having noticed that children, as a rule, do not care much for expensive toys, she had given herself to Him as a cheap toy, a little ball which He could throw about, and treat just as He liked. In Rome He set down His little ball, no doubt to see what it was made of, and finding it full of love for Himself, He wanted to test it still further, and sent it rolling into a corner. There it lay four long months, and then, at last, the Holy Child picked up His toy again.
     When Therese got back to France, she renewed her request to the Bishop. Every morning her father went with her to meet the postman, to see if there was a letter from Bayeux. The letter came on December 28, Feast of the Holy Innocents. It was addressed to the Prioress of the Carmelites, and gave permission for Therese to enter immediately. But alas! the Prioress thought it wiser to defer the entry till the following Easter. After having already overcome so many obstacles, this final delay was a sad trial to poor Therese. In her disappointment she was tempted for a moment to get all the enjoyment she could out of the remaining months at home. But Our Lord made her see the value of this time of waiting. She resolved not to lose a moment of it, and to try to be still more mortified.
     Her mortifications consisted simply of such little things as not answering back when reproved, giving way to others, holding herself straight without lolling lazily against the backs of the chairs, and doing little kindnesses to those around her. If anything in daily life tried her—if, for example, she lost one of the prettiest birds from her aviary—she quickly raised her heart to God and tried to take the little cross from His Hand.
     One day, her father gave her a white woolly lamb as a pet. But she had hardly got it when it died. She buried it under the snow in her garden, and its death made her understand that we must be ready to part with the most innocent joys.
A printable file of this chapter and three different coloring pics are available below.

     EMBOLDENED by her first success, Therese had now only one wish to do all she could for the conversion of sinners. For a time she was full of the idea of going on the foreign missions, but remembering Pranzini's conversion, she understood that souls are saved chiefly by prayer and sacrifice, and made up her mind to be a Carmelite.
     Another reason which helped her decision was that Carmelites pray particularly for priests, and there seemed to her to be no greater and nobler vocation than to consecrate one's life to helping the ministers of God. Though barely fourteen, she wanted to set to work at once and to enter the Carmelite convent the following year on Christmas night, the anniversary of her great victory. But would her family consent to her going so young? She was not afraid of what the Carmelites themselves would say. Mother Prioress was quite willing to receive her, and Sister Agnes of Jesus encouraged her, but she dreaded grieving Celine. The two sisters had no secrets from each other, and it seemed almost impossible to break the ties which bound them so closely together, Celine, however, had already guessed the intention of Therese, and, far from opposing it, she did all she could to help her to carry out her plan.
     But there was still her father to tell, and this was the hardest trial of all. How could she tell him his "Queen" was going to leave him when he had already given three of his children to God? Before confiding her secret to him, she prayed a great deal and waited for the Feast of Pentecost, asking the Holy Spirit to inspire her what to say. Her opportunity came in the evening after Vespers. Monsieur Martin was sitting in the garden, and from the expression on his face she could see that his heart was full of peace.
     All around was calm and beautiful, the tall treetops gilded by the rays of the setting sun, the birds twittering their evening hymn. Without a word she sat down beside her father, her eyes already wet with tears. He looked at her lovingly. "What is it, little Queen? Tell me," he said. And as if to hide his own feelings, he rose from his seat and walked slowly up and down, holding close to him his last and dearest child. Through her tears Therese told him that she wanted very soon to become a Carmelite. He listened, and his tears fell too. He did not try to turn her from her vocation; he simply pointed out to her that she was very young to take such an important step. But she pleaded her cause so eloquently that he was completely won over, and answered as a saint would have done. Wishing to turn the conversation a little from the painful subject of their separation, he picked a tiny white flower and explained to her how God had made it grow and blossom by giving it cooling dew and the warm rays of the sun. And Therese thought she was listening to the story of her own life. . . How much she must have loved Our Lord to have been ready for His sake to leave her father! Even when she was a baby she could not bear to think that he would die and go away from her. And now she was asking to be separated from him. But his consent did not finally decide her future.
     Her uncle, Monsieur Guerin, had also to be consulted, and he was at first very much opposed to her going. He gave way at last, but no sooner was this difficulty overcome than another arose—the Superior of the Carmelites refused to receive her till she was twenty-one. He said, however, that he was only the delegate of the Bishop, and that his decision would be altered if she could obtain his lordship's permission.
      It was raining in torrents when poor Therese left the Superior's house. She had always noticed that when she was sad the sky wept in sympathy with her, and when she was happy it was blue and cloudless. Her father could not console her. At last he suggested that they should go together to Bayeux to visit Monseigneur Hugonin, and she gladly accepted the offer. To look older than she really was, she put up her hair, which usually fell in curls down her back. It was an anxious moment when she, who generally left all the talking to her sisters, found herself in the presence of the Bishop, explaining to him the object of her visit. Monseigneur hesitated, and suggested that she ought to stay a little longer with her father. But Monsieur Martin came to the aid of his "little Queen," saying that he intended shortly to take her on a pilgrimage to Rome, and that if his lordship could not give the desired permission, they would ask it of the Pope. The Bishop was as much touched by the generosity of the father as by the earnestness of the child; but he let them go without giving a definite answer. It seemed to Therese as if all her hopes were now shattered for ever, but in spite of her grief there was peace in her heart, because she trusted Our Lord and only wanted to do His Will.
A Printable file of this chapter as well as a coloring picture are below.

     NOW that she was free from scruples and had conquered her chief failing, Therese's mind rapidly developed. A great zeal for souls sprang up in her heart, together with a desire to forget herself, and from that moment she was completely happy. She longed to love Our Lord more and to make others love Him, and she missed no opportunity of speaking about Him to those who did not know Him.
     In her eagerness to help souls, she took charge of two little beggar children. They knew nothing about God when they came to her, but she taught them so well that in a short time they were quite changed. She did not promise them happiness in this world, but she told them about the eternal reward which Our Lord keeps in heaven to give to those who are good. It was a great delight to her when she saw her little charges anxious make "acts" that they might store up the heavenly treasures of which they heard her speak. But her zeal did not stop here. She would slip medals of Our Lady into the coat pockets of workmen, and she even wanted to help the dying that she might convert them.
     It would take too long to tell all she did, but an account of the conversion of a famous murderer must not be omitted. The man's name was Pranzini. He was born at Alexandria, and was brought up a good Catholic by his pious mother. He had been well educated and could speak eight languages fluently, so that he easily obtained a post as interpreter Unfortunately, however, he fell into bad ways, gradually squandered all his savings, and finally landed in France utterly destitute. He made his way to Paris, where he went from bad to worse, until he ended by murdering three people in order to get their money. One of his victims was a child of eleven. The whole of France was shocked by the terrible crime. The murderer was tracked to Marseilles, where he was arrested as he was about to embark for Alexandria. While in prison in Paris, he spent all his leisure
translating bad books into different languages. He always denied his crime, and only consented to see the prison chaplain in the hope of getting some tobacco, or because he wanted to while away the time. Strange to say, though utterly indifferent to religion, Pranzini still honored Our Lady. When the Feast of the Assumption came, he expressed a desire to hear Mass. He told the priest that he had never given up the practice of going to church to salute Our Lady's "statue, and that formerly, in Alexandria, he had looked upon it as the greatest honor to carry her banner in processions. This was his only avowal.
     Therese had heard his sad history, and was so distressed at the thought of his dying unrepentant that he undertook to convert him. But how was she to do? She could not go to Paris and visit him in his cell, but she took a far simpler and more efficacious means. She multiplied her "acts" and did her utmost to invent new ones, in order to save his soul from hell. Still, realizing that all she could possibly do was too little to obtain so great a favor, she had Mass said for her intention and prayed her hardest.
     Meanwhile the news of Pranzini became more and more depressing. Yet the faith of Therese never wavered. She said to Our Lord: "I am sure, my God, that You will pardon poor Pranzini because I am asking You with such confidence. I would be certain even if he shows no outward sign of repentance before he dies, but I beg You dear Lord, to give me the consolation of an outward sign."
      She waited anxiously day after day.
      The execution was to take place at dawn on August 31, 1887.
     When the day came, more than 30,000 spectators assembled outside the prison to see the death sentence carried out.
     Pranzini stood before the fatal guillotine, bound hand and foot. To the very last he had refused the help of the priest, had cursed his judges, and sworn that he was innocent. The executioners were about to lead him to the block when, moved by a sudden inspiration, he turned round and cried to the priest:
     "The crucifix—give it to me quickly!"
     It was held to his lips, and as he kissed Our Lord's sacred Feet he gasped out, in a voice broken with sorrow: "I have sinned."
      The priest answered in God's name: "I absolve thee." A few seconds later the knife fell and severed the head from the body. It was the end, but an end like that of the Good Thief.
     When Therese heard the news, she was so overcome with wonder and delight that she had to run away and hide lest others should see her intense joy and question her. She thanked Our Lord for giving her this wonderful proof of the power of prayer, and resolved to continue the hidden Apostolate which He had shown to be so fruitful.

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

                                                                 A CHRISTMAS GRACE
     SOON after this great grace, Therese received another as a Christmas gift from the Holy Child.
     Since her mother's death, as we have seen, she had become extremely sensitive. This, however, was much more the result of her deeply affectionate nature than of vanity or self-love.  If she did not get good marks at school, she was inconsolable because she thought her father would be disappointed. If she had annoyed or hurt anyone, even without meaning it, she would cry bitterly. When at first they succeeded in comforting her, she would begin to cry again for having cried! The poor child realized this was a weakness, and felt it very much. How could she be a Carmelite unless she overcame it? But Our Lord was about to give her the grace of a victory over herself!
     It was Christmas Eve, 1880. Therese, as usual, had put her shoes in the fireplace to be filled with presents. But when the family came in from Mass, she overheard her father saying:
     "This is really too babyish for a big girl like Therese. hope it will be the last time she does it!"
     His words pierced her sensitive heart to the quick, and, with the tears rushing to her eyes, she was going upstairs to take off her coat when Celine whispered to her:
     "Don't go down again just yet; you will only cry if you look at your shoes when Papa is there!"
     Suddenly it flashed on Therese that if she wanted to overcome herself she must run downstairs at once, without stopping to think how hard it was, otherwise it would be too late.
In a moment her mind was made up. She did not even wait till Celine had finished speaking, but choking back her tears, she darted downstairs, picked up her shoes, and pulled out the presents, one by one, laughing merrily all the time.  Her father was delighted to see her looking so happy, and there was not the slightest trace of annoyance on his face.     
     As for Celine, she thought she must be dreaming. But it was no dream.
     Therese had bravely overcome herself, and from that moment her sensitiveness hardly ever troubled her again.
     A printable file of this chapter can be found below.

THE First Communion day dawned at last, bright and cloudless. It was Thursday, May 8, 1884. Therese, who had made the retreat as a boarder at the Abbey, woke very early and sat up in bed, her heart beating with joy. She kept saying to herself over and over again:

"Today! Today! It has really come."

When it was time to get up, she was dressed in her snowy white frock, and with her little companions in procession to the chapel. She never forgot the impression made on her by the beautiful hymn which was sung just before Communion:
 
Who can describe the sweetness of Therese's first meeting with Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament! She had waited long for Him, and now that He had come at last her happiness was so great that she could not keep back her tears. Her companions, much surprised to see her cry, said to each other afterwards:

"What was the matter with Therese? Do you think she was afraid of having done anything wrong? Perhaps she was crying because her mother and the Carmelite sister she is so fond of were not there."

They did not understand it was the joy which Our Lord had poured into her heart which had overflowed in tears. She could not possibly be sad because her mother was not there, for Heaven had come to her with Our Lord, and she felt that her mother was very near to her. Neither was she crying because she missed Pauline. In fact, she was more closely united to her sister than before, for at the very time that Therese made her First Communion, Pauline was professed as a Carmelite nun, and gave herself to Jesus for ever. Therese was perfectly happy, an even the beautiful presents she received did not take her
thoughts away from Our Lord.

Another great event of that memorable day was her Consecration to Our Lady. Probably because she was motherless, Therese was chosen to recite the act of Consecration in the name of her companions. She said it very earnestly, asking her Heavenly Mother to take the place her own mother and to keep her safe from harm. In evening, Monsieur Martin took his "little Queen" to Carmel. There she saw Pauline, and her happiness was complete as she thought that the day would soon come when she would join her "little mother" and make ready for Heaven by her side.

From the time of her First Communion little Therese was to receive Our Lord, she prepared for all her Communions with the greatest fervor.

On June 14 of the same year, she was confirmed, and that day, too, left ineffaceable memories behind. On one occasion, during the preparatory Retreat, Therese seemed lost in thought. Celine asked her what she was thinking about, and she poured forth in burning words all she felt about the indwelling of the Holy Spirit in the soul. As she spoke, such a light shone in her eyes that Celine could not meet her gaze, but had to lower her own. But these bright days were not to last. Therese had asked for suffering, and Our Lord was about to grant her prayer.
All at once her mind became filled with darkness— that is, with terrible scruples which never left her any peace. Her simplest actions and thoughts seemed to her to be sins, and made her miserable and unhappy. She, who was later to attract so many souls by her loving confidence in God, became troubled by constant fears. Her only comfort during this sad time was her sister Marie, whose wise advice she obediently followed. But even this help she was not to have long.

On October 15, 1886, Marie went to join Pauline in the Carmelite Convent. Therese was then thirteen and a half. When Marie left, she cried as if her heart would break. What would happen to her now that she had no one to guide her and take charge of her soul? In her grief she turned to her baby brothers and sisters in Heaven, for she felt sure that they, who had never known trouble or fear, would pity their sister who was suffering on earth. Her prayer was answered. Suddenly the heavy cloud of sadness lifted, she saw clearly again, and her soul was once more filled with peace. It was God's reward for her obedience and her trust in Him.
 

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.

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

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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