Uneasy and disoriented,

she is unsure if her eyes are open or closed, her body locked in motionless torpor, her skin chilled and mouth dry. Her eyes move, she knows where she is but where is this, she knows what is going on but she's dizzy and---
       Her eyes open, the dimness of just before dawn slows her mind's recognition of her surroundings, and by the time she realizes she is in bed and it is morning, the dream has slipped away beyond her grasp, and she will never again find it. As her eyes adjust to the dusky room, she slowly discovers how cold she is, her thin frame shivering in the threadbare cotton slip she wears. Looking on either side of her, she finds the bed sheet - entirely wrapped around her younger sister lying beside her. Smiling a little in both wry amusement and amiable endurance, she carefully un-tucks the sheet from the small figure, gently pulling free just enough to nearly cover herself. Wriggling over close beside her sister, she wraps the sheet around her and waits for enough warmth to return to enable her to sleep.
       Nearby, she can hear the mismatched breathing of her brother and the baby, sleeping in the opposite corner of the room. Baby Joshie was finally sleeping through the night, so Mama had moved his cradle into the children's room and brought her sewing things back to her own room, so her nightly sewing would no longer keep them awake. In a way Mary was saddened by this, for having Mama so near at night was comforting, and the hums and clicks of the sewing machine had been able to soothe her into sleep far more quickly than she could do for herself. Mama is just in the next room now, but it had still been nice to have her right in the same room...
       Yawning, she stretches her legs and toes out - but quickly draws them back in, the chill of early morning air having attacked them the moment they peeked from beneath the nearly-too-short blanket. Teeth chattering, she closes her eyes and snuggles closer to Sarah, drinking in what warmth she can from the small body curled beside hers. Yawning again, her mind begins to meander of its own will, picturing the room as it will look in a few hours' time with morning light sweeping into corners the dusk of night... Mama's kind face and work-roughened but gentle hands... the song Mama sings to Joshie now, that she once sung to all of her children... she misses Mama's singing, so sweet and reassuring... why doesn't she sing much now?
       "If I could sing like that, I wouldn't ever stop," she whispers softly aloud, but loses the train of thought in another yawn, as sleep reclaims her body and mind.
       When her eyes open again, it is to the pale yellow light of a spring morning, the smell of breakfast and the sound of Mama cooking in the kitchen. No-one else seems awake yet, or maybe the boarders have already left for the day. But she is awake now, eager for activity and movement, yet still feeling the quiet of night, the purity and delicacy of early morning calming her energetic limbs into peaceful grace. Suddenly she smiles, her eyes lighting as morning dew, and she rolls carefully out of bed, silent and cautious, wanting no-one else awake. Kneeling on the still-chilly wooden floor, she reaches beneath the bed, unfastening the clasp on a small maple chest with the deftness of an oft-repeated motion. Slipping her hand inside, she pulls out a small pile of ragged papers. They are covered in print, smudged writing, crossed-out type, and lines - old receipts mostly, a few playbills, some flyers, some bills - but the backs are invitingly blank. Holding the assortment of papers in one hand, she continues feeling around inside the chest, until her searching fingers close around a stub of a pencil. Setting it on the floor, she re-fastens the chest, and moves to sit a short distance from the bed - but not too far, in case someone should wake or appear, and she has need to rapidly hide her secret writings.
       Mama often kept a journal, and once told Mary that she had done so constantly as a young girl. Mary longed to read about all the important things Mama had written about, but Mama had only smiled gently and said that perhaps she might when she was a little older. Besides, the journals were stored away in Grandfather and Grandmother's attic, far away. She had only visited there once, but when next she did, she wanted very much to find the journals. She can just remember their house, though she had been little more than a baby of three when she and Mama and Papa and John had ridden on a train for a whole day to get there. Sarah had been too little to go, and Aunt Martha, who lived far away but not nearly as far away, had taken care of her while they were gone.
       But she could imagine the attic, away up in the very top of Grandfather and Grandmother's house in the country, filled with dusty boxes and the intriguing scent which all old things have. The light would filter in through long-uncleaned window, and the dust, which would stir up at her every breath and movement, would catch the sunlight, turning into shining fairy dust hanging in the air. There would be so many boxes, and they would be full of all kinds of interesting things - beautiful old ball gowns, long-forgotten love letters, musty books with yellow pages and ornately tooled covers, collections of stamps and coins... But nothing would deter her from finding Mama's journals. Mama has such elegant handwriting, the letters so delicate and fine, filled with graceful curves and artful loops, just to simply look at so much of her writing would be a delight. And maybe someday, Mary's own daughter would find a small maple chest, filled with sheets of paper and lovely bound journals that---
       Oh, but there would be nothing for her daughter to read if she did not write! She shakes her head, clearing her winding daydreams away for a moment, and takes a slow breath. She sifts carefully through her collection of paper, at last choosing a slim rectangle of thin, almost translucent paper, which she had been given by the grocer one day, asking very nicely for any bits of paper he might be done using. Smoothing it out on the floor with spread hands, she glances around the room to be absolutely certain that she will not be disturbed, nor her private thoughts read from the paper. Silence surrounds her still. Sarah has again cocooned herself in the blanket, on her side with her face to the wall. John is sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging off the bed, face half-smooshed against the pillow and breathing softly. There is only the quiet sound of small breaths from Joshua's cradle - not that he is a privacy concern himself, not for a long while yet, but were he to wake, he would undoubtedly wake the others. She draws a slow breath herself, taking in hand the pencil stub. There is hardly enough left to write with, but her hands are small and her nature determined - short funds have never quite deterred any artist. And so she begins to write.
       Some time later, after perhaps a quarter of an hour has passed, Mama enters the room with soundless steps, making no sound as she looks around at her children. A smile forms as her eyes light on her eldest daughter, lying on her stomach on the floor, nightgown bright and white as an angel's robe in the glittering morning light, her long dark hair spilling across slim shoulders and mingling with the rich tones of the wooden boards it lies against. A small hand curled around a pencil stub - Mama can see the scrap of paper is filled with remarkably tiny letters, so much control in the handwriting of one so young! But necessity leads to greater miracles than this, and she is quite aware of the young girl's ingenuity. Yet she winces slightly as her heart pains, wishing there were money to buy her daughter the loveliest journals to write in... but there is nothing to be done, at least for now. And Mary seems content enough, perhaps even happier, with her hard-won collection of paper.
       Mama smiles, knowing that the child's hand is still not from a pause considering the choice of a word, but in dream-visited sleep. Knowing too the girl's longing for privacy, and fear of her personal writings being read, she looks around to ensure none of the other children are yet stirring. Satisfied, she kneels down beside her sleeping daughter, and gently puts a loving hand on the slim bare shoulder. "Mary dear, it's time to wake..."
       Her small frame twitches, then stretches out full-length as she rolls onto her back and fists her eyes, yawning deeply. Eyes squinting and blinking in the light, she gradually focuses on her surroundings again. Voice muffled with sleep, she rolls onto her side. "I wasn't really sleeping, Mama..."
       Chuckling softly, Mama places a hand on the girl's head, slowly stroking the long smooth hair. "You'd best hide your writings, dear, before the rest wake up."
       Suddenly fully awake, she sits up with eyes wide, quickly leaning over to shuffle her papers back into a pile - yet despite her dramatic sense of urgency, there is a careful tenderness to the way she handles the pages which does not go unnoticed by Mama.
       A whimpering cry reaches their ears from the direction of the cradle, and Mama quickly goes over toward it. Reaching in, she pulls her youngest boy into a loving embrace, holding him close to her warm breast, kissing the top of his head as she gently turns side to side, soothing him. "Shh, Joshua, I'm here... Did the sun startle you? Hush now, he means you no harm, he's only here to warm your chilly little toes," she croons, her smile reassuring and caring, her face filled with the matchless warmth of a mother's love.
       A cranky grunt emanates from the bed nearby, followed by the sound of a body turning over, squirming and tugging at the sheet. Mary giggles softly at her brother's reluctance. Cheerful and eager, now that her work is again safely hidden away, she skips across the room and tugs at his arm. "Time to wake up! Can't you smell how yummy breakfast is going to be? Get up, get up, I'm hungry!"
       A soft whimper followed by an enormous yawn comes from the final bed, and a young voice begins chattering semi-coherently. Half-tumbling out of bed, her shift and sheets tangled together, she shrieks and giggles at the comparative coldness of the floor, jumping back into her bed.
       "No, silly Sarah, it's not time to go back into bed!" Elder sister dances over to younger sister, taking her hands in her own, and half-pulls, half-dances her out of bed. "Time for breakfast, silly Sarah!"
       "Brehfas!" she giggles brightly, jumping in place.
       "Urgh, can't a man get any sleep around here?" their brother grumbles, but even his voice is a little more awake now, the alluring smell of sausage and eggs reaching his nose.
       Mama smiles, seeing her children all awake and brightly-eyed. "Well, since the man of the house is awake, shall we have some breakfast?"
       He shrugs noncommittally, feigning manly indifference. "I'm not really hungry, but if everyone else is..." Yet despite his words, he has already swung his feet out of bed, and is neatening up the sheets behind him.
       A few cheerfully noisy minutes later, the room is empty, the voices and morning energy having moved elsewhere. Soft sunlight falls on the clumsily-made beds, and picks out the grain in the floorboards well-worn by constant passage of busy young feet. The walls look more cheerful now, the gentleness of early light being kind to the fading paper covering them. Thus it is with the room at large - the colors losing their hue with constant use, and lack of retouching, but warm and home-like for all that. Though the furnishings are a little rough, sparse and clearly economical rather than ornamental, the inevitable cheerfulness a child brings to a room is here four-fold. A drawing here, a rough attempt at embroidery there, a very few much-loved toys, a doll's bright clothes, a few wildflowers in an old cup on the windowsill. The room seems to breathe softly - with the boisterous family gone it is free to soak up the warmth of the morning sun, as well as the less tangible, but still warmer, sense of home and family which has been dispersed within it.
       A sudden patter of feet - she re-enters the room, a bit of milk clinging to her face above puckered red lips. Scampering across the room to her shared bed, she moves the pillow to the center of the bed, neatly pulling the sheet up over it. She carefully smoothes the blanket, with a grace unusual to hands so young. She then drops to her knees, reaching for the familiar clasp of the maple chest, unfastening it and reaching within. Moving her hand carefully beneath the sheaf of papers, she draws out a white handkerchief, laying it on her lap and closing the chest. She lifts the square of fabric, eyes tracing the trail of flowers embroidered across it, a delicate rainbow of color. Smiling happily at the small thing of beauty, she spreads it over the sheet-hidden pillow, smoothing it tenderly, as a thing precious - as this clearly is.
       "I miss you, Papa... I love you."
       She pauses a moment, still on her knees, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, the light falling on her shining dark hair gentle as a caress.
       "Mary? Mary, come finish your breakfast, we have a great many dishes to wash this morning, and I would very much like your help."
       The solemn moment broken, she jumps to her feet and skips out of the room. "Coming, Mama!" Her footfalls echo for a moment, and soon fade. The room again falls silent, but with a little more happiness, full of the warmth of a child's unconditional love, and the colors of small flowers.