By the vestry door sat Mrs. Coombes, watching the dead, with her sweet
solemn smile, and her constant ministration of knitting.
"Have you got a pair of scissors there, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked.
"Yes, to be sure, sir," she answered, rising, and lifting a huge pair by
the string suspending them from her waist.
"Cut off a nice piece of this beautiful hair," I said.
She lifted the lovely head, chose, and cut off a long piece, and handed it
respectfully to the father.
He took it without a word, sat down on the step before the communion-rail,
and began to smooth out the wonderful sleave of dusky gold. It was, indeed,
beautiful hair. As he drew it out, I thought it must be a yard long. He
passed his big fingers through and through it, but tenderly, as if it had
been still growing on the live lovely head, stopping every moment to pick
out the bits of sea-weed and shells, and shake out the sand that had been
wrought into its mass. He sat thus for nearly half-an-hour, and we stood
looking on with something closely akin to awe.
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