1 April 1692, Friday
Lizzie is busy making candles. Tis not easy work, but she says she enjoys it, especially since she is making batches for Silas and Mistress Thompson, who lost her newborn but two days ago. Now Lizzie stirs the boiling juice of the berries she and I gathered with beeswax. Twas a joy being outside this morn with thin streams of goldenrod sunbeams illuminating our path and only birds and trees for company. Lizzie pointed with child-like glee whenever an iridescent hummingbird poked its delicate beak into new-blooming buds. She listened to the warbler’s sing-song melody and when she sang along the bird squawked away. She giggled like a young girl, and my heart was glad seeing her so relaxed and joyful for the first time since Mary’s death. We meandered along hand in hand,
