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 course, but glad, in Gypsy's own generous fashion, that Joy had them.
"I had pretty enough things when you were in Boston," said Joy, unfolding her heavy black dresses with their plain folds of bombazine and crape.

"Now I can't wear anything but this ugly black.

Then there are all my corals and malachites just good for nothing.