She knew her place better than that.

She was a tradesman's daughter, and it would ill have beseemed her to attire herself in silk and velvet, even though the sumptuary laws had been repealed.

But she did not see why she might not have a scarlet under-petticoat like Rachel Dyson, her own cousin, or a gay bird's wing to adorn her hat on holiday occasions.
The utmost she had ever achieved for herself was a fine soft coverchief for her head, instead of the close unyielding coif which all her relatives wore, which quite concealed their hair, and gave a quaint severity to their square and homely faces.

Cherry's face was not square, but a little pointed, piquant countenance, from which a pair of long-lashed gray eyes looked forth with saucy, mischievous brightness.

Her skin was very fair, with a peach-like bloom upon it, and her pretty hair hung round it in a mass of red gold curls.
Cherry, it must be confessed, would have liked to leave her hair uncovered, but this was altogether against the traditions of her family.