‘Maggie, Maggie, here is a present for you.’
William Henry took out of his pocket an ancient, timeworn piece of paper, carefully unfolded it, and produced from it a lock of brown straight hair.
‘I thought you said it was a MS.,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, in a tone of extreme disappointment. ‘Why, this is only hair, and if I may be allowed to say so, not a very good specimen even of that.’
‘Nevertheless, sir, such as it is, it is Shakespeare’s hair!’
‘Shakespeare’s hair!’ echoed Mr. Erin, falling into rather than sitting down on the nearest chair; ‘it is impossible—you are imposing on me.’
William Henry turned very white, and looked very grave and pained.
‘Oh, uncle, how can you say such a thing!’ cried Margaret, plaintively: ‘poor Willie!’
‘I did not mean that, my lad, of course,’ gasped Mr. Erin; ‘I scarcely know what I say. It seems too great a thing to be true. His hair!’ He eyed it with speechless reverence, as it lay in his son’s open palm; his trembling fingers hovered round it, like the wings of a bird round the nest of its little ones, but did not venture to touch it.
‘Where was it found?’ he murmured.