untenance a deep inwardness and presence of God, which had given him
a strong desire of seeing me again. God then assisted me to open to him
the interior path of the soul, and conveyed so much grace to him
through this poor channel, that he went away changed into quite another
man. I preserved an esteem for him; for it appeared to me that he would
be devoted to God; but little did I then foresee, that I should ever be
led to the place where he was to reside.

My disposition at this time was a continual prayer, without knowing it
to be such. The presence of God was so plentifully given that it seemed
to be more in me than my very self. The sensibility thereof was so
powerful, so penetrating, it seemed to me irresistible. Love took from
me all liberty of my own. At other times I was so dry, I felt nothing
but the pain of absence, which was the keener to me, as the divine
presence had before been so sensible. In these alternatives I forgot
all my troubles and pains. It appeared to me as if I had never
experienced any. In its absence, it seemed as if it would never return
again. I still thought it was through some fault of mine it was
withdrawn, and that rendered me inconsolable. Had I known it had been a
state through which it was necessary to pass, I should not have been
troubled. My strong love to the will of God would have rendered
everything easy to me. The property of this prayer was to give a great
love to the order of God, with so sublime and perfect a reliance on
Him, as to fear nothing, whether danger, thunders, spirits, or death.
It gives a great abstraction from one's self, our own interests and
reputation, with an utter disregard to everything of the kind--all
being swallowed up in the esteem of the will of God.

At home, I was accused of everything that was ill done, spoiled or
broken. At first I told the truth, and said it was not I. They
persisted, and accused me of lying. I then made no reply. Besides, they
told all their tales to such as came to the house. But when I was
afterward alone with the same persons, I never undeceived them. I often
heard such things said of me, before my friends, as were enough to make
them entertain a bad opinion. My heart kept its habitation in the tacit
consciousness of my own innocence, not concerning myself whether they
thought well or ill of me; excluding all the world, all opinions or
censures, out of my view, I minded nothing else but the friendship of
God.

If through