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witless self all these years we were apart?”
    Do not find sarcasm an attractive trait in women. What man does? Still, I would have been most willing to continue our discussion had she seemed so inclined. But she turned her back to me again and busied herself squeezing paints onto a wooden palette. I left her to her work, and for aught I know she is still at it.
    Just heard the tread of her footsteps on the creaking stairs, then the squeak of her chamber door opening and closing. She has finally gone to bed, so I too shall retire, knowing she is safely tucked in. And as I do every night before I fall asleep, I shall imagine how the moonlight shines through the lace canopy above her bed, casting light and shadow upon her face and neck.

JULIA’S NOTEBOOK
    Wednesday, 5 August
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    E arly this morning we buried the young Negro. Town officials would not permit him to be interred in the Plumford cemetery, so Adam asked his grandmother to give him a place in the Tuttle burying ground on the farm.
    That Elizabeth Tuttle would allow a stranger, and a black one at that, to be buried alongside her kin might be surprising to some, but not to me. During the three years I’d resided in Plumford as a child, I’d never seen her deny Adam anything. I’d thought him a most fortunate boy to have such a doting grandmother and took to thinking of Mrs. Tuttle as my granny, too. Not that I would have presumed to address her as such, for we were not related. Nor had she ever shown the slightest fondness for me. Even so, in my heart she remains Granny Tuttle to this day. I suppose I still feel a strong connection to her because we both care so much for Adam.
    Adam, Henry Thoreau, Granny Tuttle, her ward Harriet, and I were the only graveside mourners. How sad to think that the deceased youth’s friends and loved ones do not even know what happened to him. After the simple wooden coffin was lowered in the ground, Granny read out some Bible verses, and Thoreau played a poignant tune on his flute.
    Adam and I stayed behind whilst the others went back to the farmhouse. We have been cool toward each other since Monday evening, but our warm feelings returned as we stood before his mother’s grave and held hands, just as we used to as children. I felt the connection between us once again, as strong as the links in a chain, yet as subtle as a current in the air. The marble marker we gazed upon, carved with an angel’s head and wings, was as white and shiny as I remembered it, thanks no doubt to Granny’s diligent scouring. I had memorized the inscription as a girl: “Sacred to the memory of Sarah, daughter of Elizabeth and Eli Tuttle and wife of Owen Walker. She was born November 18, 1799, and departed this life June 11, 1829.” Seventeen years ago. Adam had been but seven. Two years later, when I removed to Plumford from Boston, we became fast friends, and he would often take me here to admire the marker.
    â€œI have always imagined your mother to look exactly like that beautiful angel,” I told him.
    â€œShe might well have,” he replied. “I remember her voice and laugh and even her touch, but her features have sadly faded from my memory.”
    â€œWhat a pity you have no likeness of her as I do of my own dear mother.”
    â€œMy father had one, I am told. A portrait miniature painted on ivory. He always carried it on his person. Therefore it was lost with him at sea.”
    I imagine Owen Walker pressing Sarah’s image to his heart as his ship went down in the whaling grounds of the Pacific Ocean. His last thoughts must have been of her and his baby boy.
    â€œSadly, I have no likeness of my father, either,” Adam said.
    â€œAh, but you do. All you need do is gaze in a looking glass to see his features. Does not Grandfather Walker claim you are the spitting image of his beloved son?”
    Adam smiled at my attempt at a small jest. “I may look like my father, but I have