Her small, pale face gazed over the mass of bloom with challenging of admiration from every one whom she met.
She was jealous lest any one should not look with full appreciation of Ellen.
Ellen was the one in the little procession who had not unmixed delight in it.

She had a certain shamefacedness about going through the streets in such a fashion.

She avoided looking at the people whom she met, and kept her head slightly bent and averted, instead of carrying it with the proud directness which was her habit.

She felt vaguely that this was the element of purely personal vanity which degrades a triumph, and the weakness of delight and gloating in the faces of her relatives irritated her.

It was a sort of unveiling of love, and the girl was sensitive enough to understand it.