I teased away earth, handful by handful, until the top of the object was ful y exposed. It was a smal casket, and I was moving from the foot toward the head.

I put down my trowel and reached for a paintbrush. My eyes met those of one of my screeners. I smiled. She smiled. Her right lid did a jitterbug.

I brushed the wooden surface again and again, teasing away decades of encrusted soil. Everyone stopped to watch. Gradual y, a raised object emerged on the coffin lid. Just above the widest point. Exactly where a plaque would be. My heart did its own fast dance.

I brushed dirt from the object until it came into focus. It was oval, metal ic, with a filigreed edge. Using a toothbrush, I gently cleaned its surface. Letters emerged.

"Sister, could you hand me my flashlight? From the pack?"

Again, they leaned in as one. Penguins at a watering spot. I shone the beam onto the plaque. "Elisabeth Nicolet - 1846-1888. Femme contemplative."

"We've got her," I said to no one in particular.

"Hal elujah!" shouted Sister Girl Scout. So much for church etiquette.

For the next two hours we exhumed Elisabeth's remains. The nuns, and even Father Menard, threw themselves into the task like undergraduates on their first dig. Habits and cassock swirled around me as dirt was screened, bags were fil ed, labeled, and stacked, and the whole process was captured on film. Guy helped, though stil reluctant. It was as odd a crew as I've ever directed.

Removing the casket was not easy. Though it was smal , the wood was badly damaged and the coffin interior had fil ed with dirt, increasing the weight to about ten tons. The side trench had been a good cal , though I'd underestimated the space we'd need. We had to expand outward by two feet to al ow plywood to slide under the coffin.

Eventual y, we were able to raise the whole assemblage using woven polypropylene rope.

By five-thirty we were drinking coffee in the convent kitchen, exhausted, fingers, toes, and faces thawing. Elisabeth Nicolet and her casket were locked in the back of the archdiocese van, along with my equipment. Tomorrow, Guy would drive her to the Laboratoire de Medecine Legale in Montreal, where I work as Forensic Anthropologist for the Province of Quebec. Since the histbric dead do not qualify as forensic cases, special permission had been obtained from the Bureau du Coroner to perform the analysis there. I would have two weeks with the bones.

I set down my cup and said my good-byes. Again. The sisters thanked me, again, smiling through tense faces, nervous already about my findings. They were great smilers.

Father Menard walked me to my car. It had grown dark and a light snow was fal ing. The flakes felt strangely hot against my cheeks.

The priest asked once more if I wouldn't prefer to overnight at the convent. The snow sparkled behind him as it drifted in the porch light. Again, I declined.