"Young girls love white. It is the appropriate livery of innocence."

Therefore bed-curtains, window-curtains, and counterpane were of the
dazzling whiteness of snow. Even the table and washstand were white,
ornamented with gilded wreaths.

"Mittie was fond of writing--all school girls are," therefore an elegant
writing desk must be ready for her use--and though her love of sewing
was more doubtful, a beautiful workbox was ready for her accommodation.
She well knew the character of Mittie, and her personal opposition to
herself, but she was determined to overcome her prejudices, and bind her
to her by every endearing obligation.

"His children _must_ love me," she said, "and all that woman can and
ought to do shall be done by me before I relinquish my labors of love."

Mittie enjoyed the gift without being grateful to the giver; she basked
in the sunshine of comfort, without acknowledging the source from which
it emanated. For one year she had been treated with unvarying
tenderness, consideration, and regard, in spite of coldness,
haughtiness, and occasional insolence, till she began to despise one who
could lavish so much on a thankless, unreturning receiver.

She was surprised when her step-mother entered her room at the unusual
hour of bed time--and looking up from the book she was reading, her
countenance expressed impatience and curiosity. She did not rise or
offer her a chair, but after one rude, fixed stare, resumed her reading.
Mrs. Gleason seated herself with perfect composure, and taking up a book
herself, seemed to be absorbed in its contents. There was something so
unusual in her manner that Mittie, in spite of her determination to
appear imperturbable and careless, could not help gazing upon her with
increasing astonishment. She was dressed in a loose night wrapper, her
hair was unbraided, and hanging loose over her shoulders, and there was
an air of ease and freedom diffused over her person, that added much to
its attractions. Mittie had always thought her stiff and formal--now
there was a graceful abandonment about her, as if she had thrown off
chains which had galled her, or a burden which oppressed.

"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit, madam?" asked
Mittie, throwing her book on the table with unlady-like force.

"To a desire for a little private conversation," replied Mrs. Gleason,
looking steadfastly in Mittie's face.

"I am going to bed," said she, with an unsuppressed yawn, "yo