"Yes. Mother thought it was better. See, isn't my room pretty?" said
Gypsy, eagerly, thinking how pleased Joy would be with the little
welcome of its fresh adornments.

"Oh, is _this_ it?"

Gypsy stopped short, the hot color rushing all over her face.

"Of course, it isn't like yours. We can't afford marble bureaus and
Brussels carpets, but I thought you'd like the maple-leaves, and I
brought out the flag on purpose because you were coming."

"Flag! Where? Oh, yes. I have one ten times as big as that at home,"
said Joy, and then she too stopped short, for she saw the expression of
Gypsy's face. Astonished and puzzled, wondering what she had done, Joy
turned away to unpack, when her eye fell on the vase with its gorgeous
leaves and berries, and she cried out in real delight: "O—oh, how
_pretty_! Why, we don't have anything like this in Boston."

But Gypsy was only half comforted.

Joy unlocked her trunk then, and for a few minutes they chatted merrily
over the unpacking. Where is the girl that doesn't like to look at
pretty clothes? and where is the girl that doesn't like to show them if
they happen to be her own? Joy's linen was all of the prettiest pattern,
with wonderful trimmings and embroideries such as Gypsy had seldom seen:
her collars and undersleeves were of the latest fashion, and fluted with
choice laces; her tiny slippers were tufted with velvet bows, and of her
nets and hair-ribbons there was no end. Gypsy looked on without a single
pang of envy, contrasting them with her own plain, neat things, of