She, like Eunice, had seen Mrs.Judge Miller, from New York, whose bridal trousseau was imported from Paris, and whose wardrobe was the wonder of Camden.

And Ethelyn was very much like her, only younger and prettier.
"Very pretty," Melinda thought, while Mrs.Jones fell to comparing her, mentally, with the deceased Abigail; wondering how Richard, if he had ever loved the one, could have fancied the other, they were so unlike.
Of course, the mother's heart gave to Abigail the preference for all that was good and womanly, and worthy of Richard Markham; but Ethelyn bore off the palm for style, and beauty, too.
"Handsome as a doll, but awfully proud," Mrs.Jones decided, during the interval in which she squeezed her wounded thumb, and got the needle again in motion upon Timothy's shirt-sleeve.
Ethelyn was not greatly disappointed in Mrs.Jones and her daughter; the mother especially was much like what she had imagined her to be, while Melinda was rather prettier--rather more like the Chicopee girls than she expected.

There was a look on her face like Susie Granger, and the kindly expression of her black eyes made Ethelyn excuse her for wearing a magenta bow, while her cheeks were something the same hue.

They were very stiff at first, Mrs.Jones saying nothing at all, and Melinda only venturing upon common-place inquiries--as to how Ethelyn bore her journey, if she was ever in that part of the country before, and how she thought she should like the West.

This last question Ethelyn could not answer directly.
"It was very different from New England," she said, "but she was prepared for that, and hoped she should not get very homesick during the few weeks which would elapse before she went to Washington." At this point Mrs.Markham stopped her patching and looked inquiringly at Ethelyn.