The Amish Seamstress by Mindy Starns Clark Page A

prying the top off of the pine box closest to me. I took the first item out. It was a death notice from 1957, cut out from the Budget , for a Raymond Westler. He’d only been twenty-five.
    I swallowed hard as I handed the yellowed clipping to Verna. “Was this your younger brother? The one who hated school?”
    Her eyes pooled with tears as she read it. “Raymond and I were so close, just a year and a half apart in age and for many years inseparable. His buggy was hit by a truck.” She returned the clipping back to me.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. I couldn’t imagine the heartache of that.
    She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “There I go again, getting all emotional. There’s no reason to, really. I’m not long for this world myself…”
    I reached over and patted her hand, trying not to shudder at her words. When it seemed she’d recovered, I scooted back to the box, sure it contained, like the box from yesterday, documents from the more recent past.
    It did at first, but after going just an inch or so down, I found some things that were much older. A cemetery listing, from 1802. A tax assessment, from 1862. A list of supplies dated by hand as 1767.
    Finally, my pulse surging, I noticed one thing that looked like a handmade envelope, with writing on one side. The creases were so worn that the packet was falling apart. I held it toward the light from the window and struggled to read the faded ink.
    â€œIs that a letter?” Verna asked. “Who’s it to?”
    â€œI think it’s addressed to a Bernard…something with a V , Conestoga Township, Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”
    â€œOh, goodness. Bernard. He’s one of the ones we’ve been looking for. If I’m not mistaken, he and his wife lived here during the time you’re interested in. They came over on the Virtuous Grace .”
    Sucking in a breath, I carefully opened the packet and removed a single page of handwritten text on old, old paper. A letter.
    It was dated February 25, 1764, and was written in a feminine hand. My heart racing in excitement, I read it out loud to Verna:
    Dear Papa,
    At long last we have arrived safe and sound. The relentless rain made stretches of the GWR muddy and full of ruts, but still our dispositions remained positive. Though our guide was rough and unrefined, the rivers high, and some of the mountain passes quite steep, the terrain was magnificent, and the forests we traveled through were straight from the pages of a fairy tale .
    Despite the fact that we are not Moravian, your gracious friend and his community here have welcomed us with open arms. We are grateful for their kind hearts and generosity during this time of unrest. Br. Gunter’s orchard is less mature than those at home in the North, but with a greater variety. The fruit will do fine here for a while, I feel sure .
    The good Lord has been with us every step of the way, and for that we are very grateful. Please keep us informed of any developments .
    I have never been more sure of anything in my life, nor has Gorg. We hope you are feeling the same .
    Your loving daughter,
    Abigail
    I handed the letter to Verna and she read it silently. Then she handed it back to me and I reread it again, taking in every word.
    â€œDo you remember seeing this?” I asked her.
    She shrugged. “Not necessarily, though I do recall seeing the name Abigail on something else, something printed.”
    I glanced toward the box, hoping it was filled with more treasures like this.
    â€œWhat do you make of it?” Verna asked.
    â€œWell.” I took a deep breath and studied the page in front of me. “I’m not sure. It’s fascinating, of course, but I wish I knew more of what she was talking about.”
    I sat back and looked at the page again, trying to decide what we did know. For starters, the date was fairly significant. I glanced at Verna. “The Conestoga