But they proved to be Victorian novels, not journals. One was Vanity Fair by Thackeray, and the other, John Halifax, Gentleman by Craik. No pot of gold here, even if the latter was one of Rebecca’s favorite classics. Each looked like a first edition and was probably worth something, particularly the Thackeray novel with the author’s original illustrations.

“Let’s see what’s in these pouches,” Quentin said. He pulled the string on one, tumbling a handful of polished stones into his palm. “Nice specimens.”

“Perhaps some should go into the science hut,” she said. “I’ll have a look at them later to see what kind of stones they are.”

She pulled the box from the bottom of the chest. It was made of smooth wood, stained and varnished to a sheen, capped at the corners with dark metal brackets. On the lid were words burned into the wood in meticulous calligraphy:

Everything that is done in the world is done by hope.

“Isn’t that something Luther said?”

Rebecca nodded, tracing a finger over the letters, unable to resist touching them. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“Let’s see what’s inside,” he said.

She rocked the lid loose. It was stuck tight from years of disuse. At last it came free, squeaking as she lifted it.

“Papers,” she said. “Letters, with a note on the top.”

“Does it say whose they are?”

Rebecca shook her head, reading bold words written at the top of the yellowed sheet of paper. “‘For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.’” She looked at Quentin. “That’s from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans.”

“Does it say anything else?”

She read the rest of the note. “‘My dear Berrie’s life can be summed up by hope and worship, along with a fair share of suffering to keep her fixed on eternity. Enclosed are the letters she sent to me so long ago, when we were both young and had much to learn.’

“Hope, worship, and suffering,” Quentin said grimly. He looked from the box to Rebecca, holding her gaze. “The life of a Hamilton—and a Hollinworth. At least my father’s. Maybe mine, to some extent.”

She wanted to dwell on his observation, discuss the suffering he’d been through since the loss of his brother and father when their small plane went down in a fog, ask countless questions to fathom if it had turned him bitter or soft toward worship. But old fears stood in the way. Too personal, don’t pry. And yet . . . the look in his eye . . . Perhaps he wanted her to.

No sooner had she identified such a look than it disappeared. “Let’s take this with us to the veranda, shall we?” he said. “Have a peek over dinner, before it gets too dark outside?”