I felt the difference between the old man's hard fingers, and rough
shake, and the soft touch of the dear Alice.

"Is it not beautiful?" said the old man.

"It is well enough," said the dealer. "I shall have to make a man's
wig of it. The curls will all boil out."

You may imagine my horror at these words; and, as for the poor
vicar, he seemed thunderstruck.

"If I had any money to spare," said he, "I would buy this beautiful
hair myself, and have it framed with a glass over it, and hang it up
in my best parlor, with that blue ribbon that looks so like her;
it's as handsome as a picture; and then her dear children should
have it at my death."

Whether it was that the hair dresser was afraid of losing me, or
that his heart was slightly touched with compassion for Alice and
her orphan children, I know not; but he offered the good curate a
sum for me which satisfied him.

As the curate gave me up, he untied the blue ribbon, folded it up
nicely, and put it into his pocket; and I think he dropped a tear as
he did so.

The wig maker examined me again when he was by himself. "A fine head
of hair it really is," said he. "It will make a good wig for a
youngish sort of a man; and the curls will make it work easier."