The squire passed on into the little Sunday-School room and David followed him.
"It's brighter here." The squire measured the wainscoting with his eye. "The old window ought to be about here. Sit down, David."
"I don't believe I could open it," said he.
"Of course not!" answered the squire, cheerfully. "Do not worry, David. That silver has been melted this long time."
The squire thrust a chisel into a crevice and lifted out a section of wainscoting, then another. When three or four narrow strips were removed, he thrust his hand into the aperture. The moonlight grew brighter as the moon cleared the upper boughs of the old cherry trees outside the Sunday-School building; it shone upon a curious scene, the old man at his strange task, the young man watching so eagerly.
"There can't be anything here," said the squire, cheerfully. "There can't be. This might just as well be made into a book cupboard for the Sunday School; it is wasted space. It's queer we never thought of that. You see the church wall is four bricks thick here, and William's wall only one brick. It--"
The squire ceased suddenly to speak. His exploring hand had only now reached the bottom of the deep hole; it came into contact with a substance different from the fallen rubble which he expected to touch. David heard his voice die away, saw him start.
"There is something here," answered the squire.
David looked at the yawning hole with what courage he could muster. The squire thrust in his hand a little deeper, and groped about. Then, from the pit from which John Hartman might have lifted them easily had not all thought been paralyzed, he drew in their gray bag a pitcher, black with tarnish, and a silver plate, and set them on the floor beside him, and then a silver chalice. Still feeling about, he touched a paper and that, too, he lifted out and laid on the floor with the silver vessels.
Then, silently, he and David looked at each other.
FOR a long time neither the squire nor David spoke or moved. David sat on the bench where he had sat, a little boy at Sunday School, and the squire remained kneeling, forgetting his aching bones. When sharp pain reminded him of his years and his rheumatism, he rose and sat by David on the low, shallow bench.