us quite simply all that God has done for it, without hiding any
of its gifts. It would not, under the pretext of humility, say
that it was not pretty, or that it had not a sweet scent, that the
sun had withered its petals, or the storm bruised its stem, if it
knew that such were not the case.

The Little Flower, that now tells her tale, rejoiced in having to
publish the wholly undeserved favours bestowed upon her by Our
Lord. She knows that she had nothing in herself worthy of
attracting Him: His Mercy alone showered blessings on her. He
allowed her to grow in holy soil enriched with the odour of
purity, and preceded by eight lilies of shining whiteness. In His
Love He willed to preserve her from the poisoned breath of the
world--hardly had her petals unfolded when this good Master
transplanted her to the mountain of Carmel, Our Lady's chosen
garden.

And now, dear Mother, having summed up in a few words all that
God's goodness has done for me, I will relate in detail the story
of my childhood. I know that, though to others it may seem
wearisome, your motherly heart will find pleasure in it. In the
story of my soul, up to the time of my entry into the Carmel,
there are three clearly marked periods: the first, in spite of its
shortness, is by no means the least rich in memories.

It extends from the dawn of reason to the death of my dearly loved
Mother; in other words, till I was four years and eight months
old. God, in His goodness, did me the favour of awakening my
intelligence very early, and He has imprinted the recollections of
my childhood so deeply in my memory that past events seem to have