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"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
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