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.
‘Wrapped up in this paper, a letter to Anne Hathaway, which mentions the fact of his sending her the lock, and encloses some verses.’
‘Is it possible?’ exclaimed the old man, with intense excitement; ‘oh, happy day! Read it, read it! I can see nothing clearly.’
‘Dearesste Anna,—As thou haste alwaye founde mee toe my worde moste treue, so thou shalt see I have stryctlye kept mye promyse. I praye you perfume thys mye poore Locke withe thye balmye eyess, fore thenne, indeede, shalle Kynges themmeselves love and paye homage toe itte. I doe assure thee no rude hand hath knottedde itte, thye Willys alone hath done the worke. Adewe sweete love.
‘Most tender, true, and precious!’ exclaimed the antiquary, ecstatically; ‘and now the verses?’
‘There are but two, sir,’ said the young man, apologetically:—
‘“Is therre in heavenne aught more rare Thane thou sweete nymphe of Avon fayre, Is therre onne earthe a manne more treue Thanne Willy Shakespeare is toe you?”’
William Henry read very well, and with much pathos, and into the last line he put especial tenderness which did not need the covert glance he shot at her to bring the colour into Margaret’s cheek.
‘“Though deathe with neverre faylinge blowe, Doth manne and babe alyke bringe lowe; Yet doth he take naught butte hys due And strikes not Willy’s heart still treue.”’