f faded ribband herself and opened the package. The contents
exhaled a faint, sickly odour.

A tress of beautiful hair, of unusual length and thickness, lay in the
paper. The colour was that which is now so much sought after, and which
great ladies endeavour to produce upon their own hair, when they have any,
by washing it with extra-dry champagne, while little ladies imitate them
with a humble solution of soda. The colour in question is a reddish-brown
with rich golden lights in it, and it is very rare in nature.

The barber eyed the thick plait with a businesslike expression.

"The colour is not so bad," he remarked, as though suggesting that it
might have been very much better.

"Surely, it is very beautiful hair!" said Vjera, her heart almost breaking
at the sight of the tenderly treasured heirloom.

Suddenly the man snuffed the odour, lifted the tress to his nose, and
smelt it. Then he laid it down again and took the thicker end, which was
tied tightly with a ribband, in his hands, pulling at the short lengths of
hair which projected beyond the knot. They broke very easily, with an odd,
soft snap.

"It is worth nothing at all," said the barber decisively. "It is a pity,
for it is a very pretty colour."

Vjera started, and steadied herself against the back of the professional
chair which stood by the table.

"Nothing?" she repeated, half stupid with the pain of her disappointment.
"Nothing? not even fifteen marks?"

"Nothing. It is rotten, and could not be worked. The hairs break like
glass."

Vjera pressed her left hand to her side as though something hurt her. The
tadpole youth grinned idiotically and the barber seemed anxious to end the
interview.

With a look of broken-hearted despair the girl turned to the table and
began to do up her parcel again. Her shawl fell to the ground as she
moved. Then the tadpole nudged his employer and pointed at Vjera's long,
red-brown braid, and grinned again from ear to ear.

"Is it fifteen marks that you want?" asked the man.

"Fifteen--yes--I must have fifteen," repeated Vjera in dull tones.

"I will give it to you for your own hair," said the barber with a short
laugh.

"For my own?" cried Vjera, suddenly turning round. It had never occurred
to her that her own tress could be worth anything. "For my own?" she
repeated as though not believing her ears.

"Yes--let me see," said the man. "Turn your head again, please. Let me
see. Yes, yes, it is good hair of t