The Battered Box

The fall day had turned chilly; a brisk wind blew from the west. In the ladies' farmhouse, flames danced behind faux logs in the fireplace, casting a golden glow across the pale yellow walls of the living room. Grace Singleton and her housemates, Hannah Parrish Maxwell and Amelia Declose, had pulled chairs into a circle around a low table. Upon it sat a battered tin box the size of two large shoeboxes.

Earlier that day, Hannah's husband, Max, had strode into the house, his overalls streaked with dirt and grime from carrying the box, which was discovered while a foundation was dug for one of his historic restorations.

"Lord only knows how long it's been buried," he'd said. "The fellow on the backhoe said it looked like an old fishing box he inherited from his grandfather, who had it from his father. We broke the lock and opened it. Just a bunch of letters and a couple of small books inside, but I thought you ladies might like to check them out."

Intrigued, Grace had taken the box to the kitchen, scraped away layers of red clay dirt, and scrubbed it as clean as she could get it. One side looked as if it had been struck by a hammer, but the box had survived intact with no apparent damage to its contents: several small leather-bound diaries and bundled letters addressed in faded ink to folks in South Carolina and Connecticut. Dark and dented, the box sat now on their coffee table.

"Open it, Grace. Open it." Amelia's blue eyes gleamed with excitement. "Maybe it's a buried treasure."

"Books and letters, treasure?" Hannah's eyebrows shot up. "We'll be lucky if they don't crumble when we touch them."

Rusty hinges creaked as Grace lifted the lid and eased it back. Inside lay six packets, one