In the evening, my mother used to tell stories. My father and my older sisters told us fairy stories about magic spells and princesses robed in gold and royal doves. Then came along my mother, who told stories of Passion, Saint John the Baptist, and so on. This is how I came to know the story of Our Lord’s Passion. As it was enough for me to have heard a story once to be able to repeat it in all its details, I began to tell my companion, word-for-word, what I used to call “Our Lord’s Story.”
Just then, my sister passed by and noticed that we had the crucifix in our hands. She took it from us and scolded us saying that she did not want us touching holy things. Jacinta got up and approached my sister saying: “Maria, don’t scold her! I did it, but I won’t do it again.” My sister caressed her, and told us to go and play outside because we never leave anything in the house in its proper place.
Off we went to continue the story at the well I have already mentioned. As it was hidden behind some chestnut trees and a heap of stones and brambles, we chose this spot some years later for our intimate talks, our fervent prayers, and to tell you everything, our tears as well—and sometimes very bitter tears they were. We mingled our tears with the waters of the same well from which we drank. Does this not make this well itself an image of Mary, in whose heart we dried our tears and drank of the purest consolation?
But, let us come back to our story. When the little one heard me telling of the sufferings of Our Lord, she was moved to tears. From then on, she often asked me to tell it to her all over again. She would weep and grieve saying: “Our poor dear Lord! I’ll never sin again! I don’t want Our Lord to suffer anymore!”