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.