"Hair, lovely light chestnut hair, with a touch of gold, naturally curly, and so fine!" said the girl, opening the locket. "Isn't it soft and glossy?"
"That isn't the princess's, for hers is black."
"So you have seen her, after all?"
"Yes, I just caught a glimpse of her. But tell me, Mila, whose hair you wear against your heart, and in such a valuable locket?"
"How inquisitive you are! you are blind and dull, too, like all inquisitive people. Don't you recognize it? Don't you remember where I got it?"
"No, indeed, I do not."
"Well, put it against yours and you will recognize it, although your head has grown a little darker in a year."
"Dear little sister! yes, I do remember now that you cut it from my head the day you left Rome—and you have kept it all this time!"
"I used to carry it in a little black bag. My friend Agatha asked of what saint I carried a relic in my scapulary, and when I told her that it was my darling and only brother's hair, she took it and said she would send it back to me the next day; and the next day she sent me by father this lovely locket filled with your hair. However, some of it was missing. The jeweller who put it inside either stole it or lost it."
"Lost it, that may be," said Michel, with a smile; "but as for stealing it! This hair has no value to anyone but you, Mila!"