The squire pondered for an instant. "We would if we opened it from this side. But the Sunday School is built against the other side, and there there is only a little thin wainscoting to break through. It could be taken out and put back easily. There are tools here in the church somewhere."
The squire returned to the vestibule and opened the door of a cupboard.
"Here is a whole basket of tools. I do not like to make a light or every one will see. Millerstown is wonderful curious." The squire's light tone sounded strangely in the silence of the church, strangely to David and strangely to himself. "Don't you think, David"—the squire had his hand on the knob of the Sunday-School room door—"don't you think we had better wait till to-morrow?"
"No," answered David.
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."
David obeyed, trembling.
"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.