“'Twas Lucina Merritt wore the blue silk with roses on it; it rustled against your knee when she passed our pew,” she cried. “She is just home from her young ladies' school, and she's as pretty as a picture. I guess you saw more than the silk dress, Jerome Edwards.”
With that Elmira blushed, and dropped her eyes in a curious sensitive fashion, as if she had spoken to herself instead of her brother, who looked at her quite gravely and coolly.
“I saw nothing but the silk,” he said, “and I thought it would become you, Elmira.”
“I am too dark for blue,” replied Elmira, fairly blushing for her own blushes. At that time Elmira was as a shy child to her own emotions, and Jerome's were all sleeping. He had truly seen nothing but the sweep of that lovely rose-strewn silk, and never even glanced at the fair wearer.
“Why not have a red silk, then?” he asked, soberly.
“I can't expect to have things like Squire Merritt's daughter,” returned Elmira. “I don't want a new silk dress; I am going to have a real pretty one made out of mother's wedding silk; she's had it laid by all these years, and she says I may have it. It's as good as new. I'm going over to Granby this morning to get it cut. When Imogen and Sarah Lawson came over last week they told me about a mantua-maker there who will cut it beautifully for a shilling.”
“Mother don't want to give up her wedding-dress.”
“Women always have their wedding-dresses made over for their daughters,” Elmira said, gravely.
“What color is it?”
“A real pretty green, with a little sheeny figure in it; and I am going to have a new ribbon on my bonnet.”