it’s yours for just letting me snip off what you’ve got too much of.” 

 The girl’s bosom moved a very little. “Why can’t the lady send to some other girl who don’t value her hair—not to me?” she exclaimed. 

 “Why, simpleton, because yours is the exact shade of her own, and ’tis a shade you can’t match by dyeing. But you are not going to refuse me now I’ve come all the way from Sherton o’ purpose?” 

 “I say I won’t sell it—to you or anybody.” 

 “Now listen,” and he drew up a little closer beside her. “The lady is very rich, and won’t be particular to a few shillings; so I will advance to this on my own responsibility—I’ll make the one sovereign two, rather than go back empty-handed.” 

 “No, no, no!” she cried, beginning to be much agitated. “You are a-tempting me, Mr. Percombe. You go on like the Devil to Dr. Faustus in the penny book. But I don’t want your money, and won’t agree. Why did you come? I said when you got me into your shop and urged me so much, that I didn’t mean to sell my hair!” The speaker was hot and stern. 

 “Marty, now hearken. The lady that wants it wants it badly. And, between you and me, you’d better let her have it. ’Twill be bad for you if you don’t.” 

 “Bad for me? Who is she, then?” 

 The barber held his tongue, and the girl repeated the question. 

 “I am not at liberty to tell you. And as she is going abroad soon it makes no difference who she is at all.” 

 “She wants it to go abroad wi’?” 

 Percombe assented by a nod. The girl regarded him reflectively. “Barber Percombe,” she said, “I know who ’tis. ’Tis she at the House—Mrs. Charmond!” 

 “That’s my secret. However, if you agree to let me have it, I’ll tell you in confidence.” 

 “I’ll certainly not let you have it unless you tell me the truth. It is Mrs. Charmond.” 

 The barber dropped his voice. “Well—it is. You sat in front of her in church the other day, and she noticed how exactly your hair matched her own. Ever since then she’s been hankering for it, and at last decided to get it. 

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