Around that time, Jacinta and Francisco also began to grow worse. Jacinta used to tell me sometimes: “My chest hurts so much, but I am not saying anything to my mother! I want to suffer for Our Lord, in reparation for the sins committed against the Immaculate Heart of Mary, for the Holy Father and for the conversion of sinners.”
One morning when I went to see her, she asked me:
“How many sacrifices did you offer to Our Lord last night?”
“Three. I got up three times to recite the Angels prayers.”
“Well, I offered Him many, many sacrifices. I don’t know how many there were, but I had a lot of pain, and I made no complaint.”
Francisco spoke very little. He usually did everything he saw us doing, and rarely suggested anything himself. During his illness, he suffered with heroic patience, without ever letting the slightest moan or the least complaint escape his lips. One day shortly before his death, I asked him:
“Are you suffering a lot, Francisco?”
“Yes, but I suffer it all for love of Our Lord and Our Lady.”
One day he gave me the rope that I have already spoken about, saying: “Take it away before my mother sees it. I don’t feel able to wear it anymore around my waist.”
He took everything his mother offered him, and she could never discover which things he disliked. He went on like this until the day came for him to go to Heaven. The day before his death, he said to Jacinta and me: “I am going to Heaven, but when I am there, I will pray a great deal to Our Lord and Our Lady, asking them to bring you there too, very soon.”
I think I have already described, in my account of Jacinta, what suffering this separation caused us. For this reason, I do not repeat it here. Jacinta was already sick, and was gradually growing worse. There is no need to describe it now, as I have already done so. I shall simply relate one or two acts of virtue, which I saw her practice, and which I do not think I have described before. Her mother knew how hard it was for her to take milk. So, one day, she brought her a fine bunch of grapes with her cup of milk, saying:
“Jacinta, take this. If you can’t take the milk, leave it there, and eat the grapes.”
“No mother. I don’t want the grapes; take them away and give me the milk instead. I’ll take that.” Then without showing the least sign of repugnance, she took it. My aunt went happily away, thinking her little girl’s appetite was returning. She had no sooner gone than Jacinta turned to me and said: “I had such a longing for those grapes and it was hard to drink the milk! But I wanted to offer this sacrifice to Our Lord.”
One morning I found her looking dreadful, and I asked her if she felt worse. “Last night,” she answered: “I had so much pain, and I wanted to offer Our Lord the sacrifice of not turning over in bed, therefore I didn’t sleep at all.” On another occasion, she told me: “When I’m alone, I get out of bed to recite the angel’s prayer. But now I’m not able to touch the ground any more with my head, because I fall over, so I only pray on my knees.”
One day, I had the opportunity of speaking to the Vicar. His Reverence asked me about Jacinta and how she was. I told him what I thought about her condition, and afterwards related what she had said to me about being unable to touch the ground when she prayed. His Reverence sent me to tell her that she was not to get out of bed to pray, but that she was to pray lying down, and then only as long as she could do so without getting tired. I delivered the message at the very first opportunity.
“And will Our Lord be pleased?” she asked.
“He is pleased,” I replied. Our Lord wants us to do whatever the Reverend Vicar says.”
“That’s alright, then I won’t get up any more.”
Whenever I could, I loved to go to the Cabeco to pray in our favorite cave. Jacinta was very fond of flowers, and coming down the hillside on the way home, I used to pick a bunch of irises and peonies, when there were any to be found, and then take them to her saying: “Look! These are from the Cabeco!” She would take them eagerly and sometimes with tears running down her cheeks, she would say, “To think I’ll never go there again! Nor Valinhos, nor Cova da Iria! I miss them all so much!”
“But what does it matter, if you’re going to Heaven to see Our Lord and Our Lady?”
“That’s true,” she replied. Then she lay there contentedly, plucking off the petals and counting them one by one.
A few days after falling ill, she gave me the rope she had been wearing and said: “Keep it for me; I’m afraid my mother may see it. If I get better I want it back again!” This cord had three knots, and was somewhat stained with blood. I kept it hidden until finally I left my mother’s home. Then not knowing what to do with it, I burned it, and Francisco’s as well.