d with the monks and had
small relish for the higher mysticism, they were all fond of her, and
took her for an angel from heaven. Their tender feelings having little
else to engage them, became concentred in her and her alone. They
found her not only pious and wonderfully devout, but a good child
withal, kind-hearted, winning, and entertaining. They were no longer
listless and sick at heart. She engaged and edified them with her
dreams, with stories true, or rather, perhaps, unfeigned, mingled ever
with touches of purest tenderness. She would say, "At night I go
everywhere, even to America. Everywhere I leave letters bidding people
repent. To-night I shall go and seek you out, even when you have
locked yourselves in. We will all go together into the Sacred Heart."

The miracle was wrought. Each of them at midnight, so she said,
received the delightful visit. They all fancied they felt Cadiere
embracing them, and making them enter the heart of Jesus. They were
very frightened and very happy. Tenderest, most credulous of all, was
Sister Raimbaud, a woman of Marseilles, who tasted this happiness
fifteen times in three months, or nearly once in every six days.

It was purely the effect of imagination. The proof is, that Cadiere
visited all of them at one same moment. The abbess meanwhile was
hurt, being roused at the first to jealousy by the thought that she
only had been left out, and afterwards feeling assured that, lost as
the girl might be in her own dreams, she would get through so many
intimate friends but too clear an inkling into the scandals of the
house.

These were scarcely hidden from her at all. But as nothing came to
Cadiere save by the way of spiritual insight, she fancied they had
been told her in a revelation. Here her kindliness shone out. She felt
a large compassion for the God who was thus outraged. And once again
she imagined herself bound to atone for the rest, to save the sinners
from the punishment they deserved, by draining herself the worst
cruelties which the rage of devils would have power to wreak.

All this burst upon her on the 25th June, the Feast of St. John. She
was spending the evening with the sisters in the novices' rooms. With
a loud cry she fell backward in contortions, and lost all
consciousness.

When she came to, the novices surrounded her, waiting eager to hear
what she was going to say. But the governess, Madame Lescot, guessed
what she would say, felt that she was about to