PAPA! Papa! the lamp is lit!" called Therese one evening, and a voice answered from the
belvedere:

"Coming, little Queen!"

There was the sound of a chair moving, and a door opening, and Monsieur Martin's step
was heard on the stairs. It was getting near Christmas-time, and a bright fire was crackling merrily on the hearth. As soon as her father had taken his usual place beside it,
Therese clambered on to his knee. Marie sat at the round table with a book, Pauline took her embroidery and Leonie her tapestry-frame, whilst Celine settled herself on a low chair to look at the pictures in a big album. Then Marie began to read aloud Dom Gueranger's "Liturgical Year," a book which explains, season by season, all the beautiful mysteries of our Faith. This more serious reading was followed by some passages from another book of a lighter description, and then began an animated conversation. The talk naturally turned on Midnight Mass, and Therese asked:

"Papa, have you remembered the Yule log?" When her father answered, "Yes," she continued eagerly:

"Is it very big?" Monsieur Martin got up and went out. A moment later he came in almost staggering under the weight of the huge log.

"Now are you satisfied, little Queen?" he said, laying it at her feet.

"Oh yes, Papa!" cried Therese, clapping her hands delightedly.

"Our fire, at any rate, won't go out on Christmas night, and the Holy Child will find it burning beautifully when He comes! I'll put my shoes in the fireplace on this side, and Celine's on that! Oh, when will it be here? It's so long coming!"
 
The others laughed at their little sister's childish glee, and her father looked at her lovingly. Because Therese was absolutely unspoilt, the smallest things gave her pleasure. How she enjoyed those winter evenings! With what delight she watched the red apples roasting in the fire, and the chestnuts cooking in embers! As they ate them, they sang old Breton lads and Christmas carols, calling on the Christ Child come, or thanking Him for His gracious coming. They were never at a loss for some fresh form of amusement, and these simple pleasures were among the sweetest joys of home life.

After a merry evening, they said night prayers together, and Therese, kneeling beside her father, had only to look at him to learn how the Saints pray. Then good-nights were said, and the "little Queen" received a last kiss from her "darling King." While Pauline was
putting her to bed, she invariably asked:

"Have I been good today? Is Our Lord pleased with me? Is Our Lady pleased with me? Will then angels stay with me?" The answer was always "Yes," otherwise she would have cried all night.

The time came for Therese to prepare for her first Confession. Pauline had taught her that the priest takes the place of God, and that we must hide nothing from him. So she confessed her little faults with perfect truthfulness. It would have been the same if she had committed bigger ones. As she was too small for the priest to see her if she knelt in the confessional, she stood at his knee. She came out full of joy at the thought that her soul had been made whiter than snow. The priest had told her to love Our Lady very much, and she determined to try to do so.

As soon as she left the church, she stopped under a street-lamp, took out her rosary, which had been blessed, and, turning it over and over, examined it attentively.

"What are you doing, darling?" asked Pauline.

"I am looking to see what a blessed rosary is like." From this time Therese always went to Confession before all the great Feasts of the Church, to make her soul whiter and whiter.
 
She loved every Feast as it came round, but the one she loved best, and for which she prepared herself most gently, was Corpus Christi. She could not yet receive Lord, for then children did not make their First Communion when they were very small, as the Holy Father allows them to do now. She would look longingly at the white Host which the priest carried in the procession, and which he put on beautiful altars covered with flowers and lights. Therese, dressed in white, and wearing a wreath of roses, eagerly awaited her turn to throw her flowers. She would come quite close up to Our Lord, and she was never happier than when she thought she saw her fragrant petals kiss the golden monstrance.

The great Feasts did not come often, but every week brought a day which Therese loved dearly—Sunday, God's own Feast. She thought Sunday a delightful day, though in certain respects it was a solemn one.

In the morning they all went to High Mass, and at the sermon, their seats being far from the pulpit, they moved into the nave. Sometimes it was difficult to find a place, because of the crowd. But everyone gladly made room for little Therese and her father. Monsieur
Guerin, her uncle, who sat in the church warden's bench, was delighted to see the picture they made coming up the aisle. He called Therese his "little Sunbeam." It never occurred to the child herself that people were looking at them; her whole attention was riveted on the preacher. The first sermon she really understood was one on the Passion; it made a deep impression on her, though she was only five and a half.

The meals at "Les Buissonnets" on Sundays were usually very plain, so that the maids might be free to go to church. However, Pauline always gave Therese a treat by bringing her a cup of chocolate in bed.

If there was a fair in the town, Therese would go out with her father and sisters, but however gay the music of the merry-go-rounds, and however attractive the brightly colored balloons, and the twirling "windmills," Monsieur Martin made it a rule never to buy anything on Sunday. In fact, to avoid making others work, he never travelled on that day unless absolutely obliged to do so. Sunday passed all too quickly, and Therese enjoyed every moment of it till the evening. But after Compline, a sad feeling came over her. She thought of tomorrow, when everyday life would begin again, with lessons and work, and she wished that it could always be Sunday, as she imagined it must be in Heaven. What added to this sadness was that they could not all be together, because the elder girls had to take it in turns to spend evening with their cousins. Therese, too, was invited sometimes, and on the way home she loved to look up at the twinkling stars. There was one bright cluster which she looked for particularly, because she saw in it a resemblance to the letter T.

"Look, Papa," she would say to her father, "my name is written in Heaven!"

Then she would tell him to lead her, and without looking where she was going she would throw back her head and gaze unweariedly at the starry skies.

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

THE holidays were not all spent fishing. The children had to see something of their relations, and Madame Guerin, their kind aunt, who felt herself responsible for her nieces as well as for her own little girls, did her best to make them happy. She used often to take them to a beautiful park, called the Jardin de l'Etoile, a favorite playground for children.

Therese loved running about in the thickets picking flowers, and she always returned with a big bunch. She and her favorite cousin, Marie, had in vented an original game called "Hermits." They had heard from their parents stories of the Saints who went to live in the desert, and they were fired with the desire of imitating them. So they made themselves a cell in a quiet corner of the garden, and while one hermit knelt and prayed the other worked, pretending to plant and water the vegetables, of which their diet was supposed to consist. When he was tired of working, and his brother of praying, they changed places.

But one of the little anchorites was always inclined to prolong the time of prayer. This was Therese. She did not only pretend, she really did pray, and spent many happy moments talking to Our Lord and listening to His answers.

The two children kept silence like real monks, and when they had anything to say to each other, they expressed themselves by signs. They put on a very solemn expression, and walked about with downcast eyes. The make-believe continued even in the street.
They said the rosary as they went along, using their fingers to count on.

One day, on the way home from school, Therese thought she would imitate the recollection of the hermits. "Lead me," she said to Marie;

"I am going to shut my eyes." Marie immediately wanted to copy her.

"So am I," came the answer.

They were on the pavement,  where there was no danger of their being run over, and for a time all went well. Suddenly a loud crash made Jeanne, who was walking in front with Celine, turn hastily round. To her amazement, she saw that the two children had fallen over and upset some boxes standing at a shop door, and the angry shopkeeper was hurrying out to pick up his goods. Needless to say, the hermits opened their eyes wide enough to scramble to their feet and run away, not only from the shopman, but also from the well-deserved scolding which Jeanne had in store for them.
 
In spite of her taste for the life of a solitary, Therese was overjoyed when one day her father proposed a visit to Trouville, by the sea. From that moment she lived in a dream of eager anticipation, but the reality far exceeded her most glowing expectations. It was the first time she had ever seen the sea, and she sat gazing at it in silent wonder. She enjoyed picking up the pretty colored shells with which the beach was strewn, and at each fresh find she would give little shrieks of delight. The elder girls used to go for long walks, and Therese generally went with them on their expeditions. Their favorite walk was to the "Black Rocks." One day while her sisters were filling their fishing-baskets with shells, Therese sat there apart with Pauline.

It was evening, just when the sun seems to sink into the wide waters, leaving behind it a golden track of light, an image, Pauline said, of the path of faithful souls, lit up by grace. Therese pictured her own soul as a tiny white-sailed boat floating in the midst of that shining way, and she determined that Jesus should always be its pilot, to steer it swiftly and peacefully to the heavenly shore.

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

You know, children, that to become holy, God does not only ask us to make "acts" of mortification. He wants us to do our ordinary actions well. For instance, if you are having recreation or holidays you may enjoy yourselves thoroughly, but without forgetting that you belong to God. More than this, you should make use of these amusements to raise your hearts to Him. If this seems difficult to understand, I will explain what I mean by showing you how Therese spent one of her holidays.

Thursday was always a great day with Therese. It was a holiday for her and for her confidante and playmate, Celine. Celine was now old enough to be at school at the Benedictine Convent, and though she came home every evening, it was almost bedtime when she had finished her homework, and poor Therese saw very little of her. The two children, therefore, longed for Thursday, when they could be together.

One Thursday was to be a whole holiday, and they were told overnight that there was to be a picnic party. It was barely seven o'clock when Pauline came to call her "little girls," but they were already wide awake, and jumped out of bed, bubbling over with joyous anticipation. They made their morning offering, dressed quickly, and then said their prayers. The sun was shining brilliantly, and everything promised a hot day. As soon as breakfast was over, they slung their baskets over their shoulders and set off in the highest spirits. Along the road they picked flowers under the hedgerows, and all at once they found a nest in the bushes. As Therese was too small to see, Pauline lifted her up, and she parted the hedge carefully, holding her breath so as not to frighten the baby birds.

"Would you like to take them home?" asked her father. "They are starlings; you could put them in the aviary with the other birds."

Therese became thoughtful for a moment. She was very fond of pets. She had doves, parakeets, canaries, bullfinches, and linnets in her aviary, and some goldfish in a glass bowl. These little starlings would get on so well with the other birds. But then it would never do to take them from their mother. Therese instinctively protected everything weak and helpless. She was afraid of hurting even an insect, and left the nest untouched.

They continued their walk, and as Therese looked at the woods and meadows, she seemed to hear them telling her of the goodness of God, and of His uncreated loveliness
reflected in the beauty of creation.

"Only think," she exclaimed—"God has made all this out of nothing, just to make us happy! I do love Him!"

At last they found a splendid place both for lunch and fishing in a meadow by the side of a broad stream. The walk had sharpened their appetites, and they were not slow to unpack their hampers. But Therese did not forget to say her grace. After a merry lunch they all wandered off in different directions to amuse themselves as they liked. Therese
spent her time trotting to and fro between her sisters, gathering armfuls of flowers, or sitting beside her father trying to catch minnows with her own little rod.

Finally, she settled herself apart on a grassy bank, and gazed in silence at the landscape before her. Her thoughts turned to her mother in Heaven, and she began to understand that this earth, in spite of its loveliness, is only a place of exile, a path leading to the land where everything is far sweeter and more beautiful, and where the happy days will last for ever. She had felt like this once before when outfishing with her father. In spite of her enjoyment there had been the same sense of disappointment. The jam sandwiches, prepared by Pauline, which had been so fresh and tempting in the morning, were stale and uninviting when lunch time came. This somehow made earth seem sadder, and Therese began to see that only in Heaven will there be perfect joy.

But the picnic seemed likely to end in disaster, for during the afternoon a storm had been gathering, and now suddenly burst. Monsieur Martin caught up his little daughter and carried her away from the trees, which he feared might attract the lightning. As he was crossing the meadow, a thunderbolt fell close to them. But Therese was not at all frightened, for she knew she was in God's hands as surely as she was in her father's arms. The storm soon passed, and tired and happy they returned home through the fields, on which the raindrops were sparkling like diamonds in the sun.

Below you will find a printable copy of this chapter as well as a coloring picture.

It's Monday today! How many rings at the bell there will be! I should love to be Victoire and answer the door!" exclaimed Therese on awaking one morning.

Pauline overheard her, and after consulting with Marie, she told Therese that as a great treat she would let her give away the food which was always distributed to the poor on Monday mornings. Therese clapped her hands with delight, and put on a solemn expression in keeping with this responsible duty.

At the first sound of the bell, she jumped up, ran to the door, and, opening it gently, handed the bread to the expectant beggar with a smile. The whole morning a long procession of poor people came to the door. Therese had not a moment's rest; she was quite out of breath and flushed with excitement and pleasure. Once, however, she came back in great distress.

"Oh, Pauline!" she said, "there's a poor woman, he is so pale, and has a sick baby in her arms!"

The imploring eyes of the child seemed to beg for something more to give. Her unspoken request was at once granted. She ran off, but was soon back again.

"Pauline," she said with a quiver in her voice, "the beggar woman said to me, 'God bless you, little lady!' "

And overcome by such thanks, she could not keep back her tears.

Therese gave alms, not only on Monday, but often besides, for every afternoon, during the walk, other opportunities of charity occurred, and she would give her penny with a heart full of pity for those in need.

One day, seeing a poor old man dragging himself along on crutches, she ran to meet him. But he looked at her sadly and refused her offering. Therese came back to her father almost crying. She had wanted to help the poor man, and she was afraid she had hurt him. Her kind little heart could not bear the thought. What wast to be done? Her father had just bought her a bun.

"Shall I take it to the poor man?" she said. "He won't have money, but perhaps he will take my bun!"

She wanted to run and give to him, but he had gone too far. She began to cry, but suddenly this idea occurred to her:

"If I have not been able to help this poor man, God can.  Pauline says that our Lord grants everything we ask Him on our First Communion day, so I will pray for my poor old man then." This thought consoled her, and four years later she kept her promise.
 
Who that old man was no one knows, but it would seem as though Our Lord was so touched by the kind thought of little Therese that after she had become a carmelite and had gone to Heaven, He granted through her intercession a wonderful favor to another poor old man who was dying of cancer. He was in the Hospital of the Little Sisters of the Poor at Lisieux, and someone read to him this incident from the life of Therese. It struck him that a child who had been so kind to the suffering poor would surely have pity on him, and so he prayed to her to be cured. His simple faith was rewarded, for his tongue, already half consumed by the cancer, was not only suddenly healed without any human remedy, but grew again fresh and entire.

Thus does God show us the beauty of charity, by the power He has given little Therese in Heaven, as a reward for having practiced it so well on earth. It should never end were I to tell you all she did, or wanted do, for the poor. Her sisters had to restrain her eagerness, and later on she said:

"I could never keep anything and had I been rich, and free to dispose of my wealth, I should have ruined myself, for I could not have seen anyone in poverty without giving him all he needed."

It was this tender compassion for all sufferers which made her ask Our Lord that she might "spend her Heaven in doing good on earth." This He has generously granted, as we may see every day by the wonderful favors she obtains for those who put their trust in her.

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

Early every afternoon Therese went out for a walk with her father. They always had a companion on these occasions, a beautiful white spaniel with a long silky coat. During the walk they never missed making a visit to the Blessed Sacrament in one or other of the churches in the town. It was easy for the townsfolk to know to which church they had gone for the devoted "Tom" always stood sentinel at the door. He knew quite well that church is not meant for dogs, and so while his master and little mistress, and while they were saying their prayers, he would wait on the steps as good as gold. If the visit seemed long, he went off to have a game friends close by, but he soon returned to his post, and when they came he bounded round them, barking with delight.

What did Therese say to Our Lord when she went to see Him? Just what came naturally from her heart: "Dear Lord, I love You, I want to love You for those who don’t love You; I want to be always faithful to You, and to make up to You for all the children who never think of You."

While they were out, Therese would ask her father questions about the things she saw, or anything that came into her head. "Papa," she said one day, "what do you say to God when you go to see Him? and to whom did you take off your hat just now? I didn't see anyone."

Her father told her all he said to Jesus in the Tabernacle. He explained to her that he always took off his hat when passing a Church, out of respect for the Blessed Sacrament, also before a Calvary, to honor the Passion, and whenever he met priests, because of their sacred character.

Then Therese continued: "Papa, why do you tell Marie to pay the shopmen quickly?"

"Because, little Queen, we must not live at the expense of others; it is an injustice to make our neighbor work without giving him the payment which is his due. I will tell you a sad story which is true.

"A poor widow with four children, the youngest of them barely two, worked day and night as a milliner to make money to keep her family. The grand ladies for whom she worked paid her very badly, and there were even some who did not pay her at all. She would go back two or three times to the same house, and each time she was turned away. As she herself was honest, and always paid her own debts, a day came when there was nothing to eat in the house, and the children had to go supperless to bed. For several months this sad state of things went on, until at last the poor mother died, worn out with the struggle, leaving four little orphans with no one to care for them."

During this story Therese hung her head, and the tears began to fall. "Oh, Papa," she sobbed in great distress, "what shall we do, that this may never happen again?"

"Well, darling, we will think of what old Tobias said to his son: ‘Remember that the workman deserves his pay; do not sleep even a single night without having paid him his hire.’ I was struck by those words when I was quite a boy."

Then Therese, looking at her father, her eyes round with admiration, exclaimed: "Oh, Papa! if the great men of the Government only knew you, they would make you King, and France would never have been so happy before! But I am glad they don't know you, because you would be unhappy, like all Kings." This outburst of enthusiasm was followed by a silence, after which Therese went on:

"Papa, why do you go to six o'clock Mass every morning in winter, when you could easily go later?"

"Certainly I could, Therese, but I like that Mass, because all the poor people go to it. Besides—I tell you this as if you were a big girl—I go because it gives me the chance of doing a little penance. For penance makes up to God, not for our own sins only but for those of all sinners!"

Therese grew thoughtful. She understood that by making "acts" you correct your faults and offer sacrifices to little Jesus, but how could these same acts help sinners by giving them back the purity of soul which they have lost?

Just at this moment they came to a bend of the road near a stream covered with water lilies. Suddenly there was a loud splash.

"What's that?" cried Therese, and as she spoke Tom's head appeared in the midst of the lilies. Monsieur Martin laughed, and whistled to the dog, who came out dripping.

"What a state you're in, Tom!" said Therese. "Now try and keep still, and don't shake yourself too near us!"

She had hardly said the words when Tom began rolling in the dusty road. In a moment he had lost all his beauty, and looked like a ball of mud.

"How dirty he is!" cried Therese.

"Yes," said her father, "Victoire will have to give him a fine scrubbing when he gets in! That is a picture, hide Queen, of a soul which has soiled itself in the mud of sin, and which needs some charitable hand to wash it clean again!" By this time they had reached home. Therese had walked a long way, and talked a great deal, and she was very thirsty.

"Oh, Pauline," she called out, as soon as she had set foot on the threshold, "you don't know how thirsty I am!"

Pauline, knowing nothing of what Therese had just heard, replied: "Would you like to do without a drink to save a poor sinner?"

Now was the moment to practice what she had been told. "Yes, Pauline," she answered at once, though a big sigh betrayed how much it cost her. But Pauline thought her little girl had done enough by being so ready to make the "act," and after a few minutes brought her a cooling drink. Therese did know if she ought to take it, for fear of not saving sinner. But her "little mother" reassured her saying that besides the merit of her "act," she would have still more merit now by being obedient, and these two "merits" would perhaps save two sinners instead of one.

A printable file of this chapter  is available below.

IT was late in the evening when the travellers arrived, and the children were so tired that they were almost dropping asleep. As soon as supper was over, therefore, Marie and Pauline took their little sisters up to bed.

Alone with his brother and sister-in-law, Monsieur Martin began to discuss with them his plans for the future. The fortune which he had made in business at Alencon was sufficient to allow him to live henceforward on his income, and to devote himself entirely to the education of his children. He relied on the kindness and affection of Madame Guerin to guide his elder girls in their duties as "little mothers" and mistresses of the new home in Lisieux.

Early the next day our party set out for "Les Buissonnets." After crossing the public park, they were soon in the narrow lane leading to the house where Therese was to pass her happy sheltered childhood. The elder girls looked sadly at the home where they would never see their dearly-loved mother.

But Therese was delighted with everything.

The house itself was bright and sunny, and to add to its charms there was a large belvedere with carved woodwork and stained glass windows, commanding on all sides a  beautiful view over hills and meadows. In front of  the house was a flower-garden with lawns and trees, and behind, a big kitchen-garden. It all seemed wonderful to the imagination of a child of five.

They soon settled down in this their new home.  Marie spared no pains to make her father happy, while Pauline busied herself with the little ones confided to her care. This was a charge that seemed to have been left to her by her mother, who on her deathbed had taken Pauline's hand and kissed it reverently, as if to appoint her spiritual mother of her sisters.

Pauline took upon herself the entire care and education of Therese, who was still too young to go to school. Under so devoted a teacher, the child soon learned to read and write, and the first word she could read was "Heaven."

Every day, when lessons were over, the "little Queen" went up to the belvedere, the usual quarters of her father, whom she called her "King." She would climb on to his knee and proudly show him her marks, which were always good.

Sometimes she would find him in the garden, and take him for a walk, skipping along gaily at his side. If she left him for a moment, it was only to make up strange drinks from the bark of trees. When these "wines" turned out a pretty color she would bring them to her father in a doll's cup. He would pretend to drink the odd mixture, and declare it delicious.

Another favorite occupation of Therese was to make altars of moss in a hollow of the garden wall. When they were ready, her father had to come and look at them and go into raptures over their beauty.

To encourage her to work diligently at her lessons a celebration was held every year at "Les Buissonnets for  the distribution of prizes. Though Therese the only competitor, strict justice was observed, and she only obtained the rewards she had really deserved. A number of friends were invited to see acted by the children, the conservatory being hung with draperies for the occasion.

But before the play began, the "little Queen" made her entry on the stage, and her father, seated in the place of honor, solemnly presented her with her prizes.

This ceremony always suggested to the childish imagination of Therese the day of judgment, when only the wicked need have any fear, while those who all their lives have worked for God will be generously rewarded.

A printable file of this chapter as well as a coloring picture are available below.

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.”