She had swept and dusted every corner and crevice; she had displayed all her ornaments to the best advantage, and put fresh cologne in the bottles.

She had even brought from some sanctum, where it was folded away in the dark, a very choice silk flag about four inches long, that she had made when the war began, and was keeping very tenderly to wear when Richmond was taken, and pinned it up over her looking-glass.
On the table, too, stood her Parian vase filled with golden and blood-red maple-leaves, and the flaming berries of the burning-bush.
Very prettily the room looked, when everything was finished, and Gypsy was quite proud of it.
Joy came Thursday night.

They were all in the parlor when the coach stopped, and Gypsy ran out to meet her.
A pale, sickly, tired-looking child, draped from head to foot in black, came up the steps clinging to her father's hand, and fretting over something or other about the baggage.
Gypsy was springing forward to meet her, but stopped short.

The last time she had seen Joy, she was in gay Stuart-plaid silk and corals.

She had forgotten all about the mourning.