May 29, 1915

I stayed up for three nights making Beatrice a doll. I sewed it from a piece of soft flannel, with two black buttons for eyes and a smiling mouth stitched out of pink embroidery floss. When I gave it to her, she hugged it tightly and her face broke into a wonderful smile. “Baby,” she said. “Baby!”

It is Beatrice’s second week at Cold Creek, and she says many words now. It seems that she only needed a little affection and encouragement to bring her out of herself. This morning she cried out “Papa!” when we met Blackmore on our morning walk. Her little voice was as clear and sweet as a bell, but if Blackmore was pleased he did not show it.

Beatrice and I have a secret. I told her that when we are alone, she may call me Mama. Beatrice looked at me over the rim of her mug with her sharp brown eyes, and I felt my heart thud in my chest. “Mama,” she said. She smiled. Her teeth were like milky pearls.

Tears slid down my cheeks. I touched the little girl’s hair. I washed it this morning in the tub by the woodstove, and I am delighted to see how it shines. Tomorrow I will put it in rags for curls.