There was nothing unusual in the circumstance. The children were in the
habit of making their offerings generally without particular reference
to time or occasion, and it might have been overlooked by him during
school-hours. He felt a pity for the forgotten posy already beginning
to grow limp in its neglected solitude. He remembered that in some
folk-lore of the children's, perhaps a tradition of the old association
of the myrtle with Venus, it was believed to be emblematic of the
affections. He remembered also that he had even told them of this
probable origin of their superstition. He was still holding it in his
hand when he was conscious of a silken sensation that sent a magnetic
thrill through his fingers. Looking at it more closely he saw that
the sprigs were bound together, not by thread or ribbon, but by long
filaments of soft brown hair tightly wound around them. He unwound a
single hair and held it to the light. Its length, color, texture,
and above all a certain inexplicable instinct, told him it was Cressy
McKinstry's. He laid it down quickly, as if he had, in that act,
familiarly touched her person.

He finished his letter, but presently found himself again looking at
the myrtle and thinking about it. From the position in which it had been
placed it was evidently intended for him; the fancy of binding it with
hair was also intentional and not a necessity, as he knew his feminine
scholars were usually well provided with bits of thread, silk, or
ribbon. If it had been some new absurdity of childish fashion introduced
in the school, he would have noticed it ere this. For it was this
obtrusion of a personality that vaguely troubled him. He remembered
Cressy's hair; it was certainly very beautiful, in spite of her
occasional vagaries of coiffure. He recalled how, one afternoon, it had
come down when she was romping with Octavia in the play-ground, and was
surprised to find what a vivid picture he retained of her lingering in