"Maman, must I really stay

in this room alone?" Casting her eyes about, she tries to hide her dismay in a low voice, but her attempted subtlety does little to aid her case.
     "Cecelia Marie, you ought to be ashamed!" The older woman's rebuke is sharp, but also murmured softly, to maintain polite appearances. "I know the Perkinses haven't done at all well keeping house, but that is why we ladies are here to help today. And I do think you are quite old enough to manage neatening up a few piles of clothing and such by yourself."
     Sighing softly, she forces a weak smile and nods her acquiescence. "Of course, Maman." She waits for her mother to leave the room, and listens as her cheerful accented voice weaves among the soprano chatter of her fellow members of the church's Ladies Society. Turning about, she then lets her eyes drift resignedly around the room. Though the piles of ragged, dirty clothing are large, the various pieces of furniture, fabric, knock-knacks, toys, broken diningware, and other sundry items are jumbled in hopeless disarray, it is not the mess which had prompted her childish request. Being both eleven years old and her mother's daughter, she knows well how to approach the work set before her.
     What troubles her is something far more nebulous, not easily explained to a bustling mother. There is some feeling of dinginess, some sort of ugliness, which her inner senses cringe at the thought of touching. She shakes her head vigorously, golden ringlets brushing against rosy cheeks.
     "Now, I mustn't disappoint Maman," she gently admonishes herself, as she straightens her gloves (her oldest pair, with the small stain of a drop of tea on the inside of a thumb). "Perhaps it is only the dirt and old dust after all. Certainly there could be nothing dangerous in an empty old room."
     After letting her gaze meander a moment and take in her surroundings, she decides to begin near the window opposite the door, thinking that perhaps if she clears some of the piles from the windowsill, the extra light allowed in will brighten things somewhat. She straightens the grey-blue cap on her curls, and runs her gloved hands down her apron, ensuring it is properly smoothed over her dress - it may be her work dress, but she has no desire to dirty it any more than need be. There are still a number of people about the house, and think of walking home with a smut-covered dress! She flushes brightly at the very thought, and sets gingerly to work, sifting through a pile of fabric and clothing.
     At first, her motions set dust into the air about her, and she coughs delicately, knitting her brows. The initial cloud clears most of the debris from the pile, however, and so she progresses through countless bits of fabric remnants and old clothing. Sorting them into separate piles of dresses, shirts, pants, and mere scraps, she wrinkles her nose occasionally at the dreadfully unfashionable old prints. It seems little wonder that they should be so dusty, and so long untouched! Before long, she has settled into a pattern of routine, nearly folding and placing in more careful piles the various fabrics. Though she would like to place many pieces in a pile for discarding, and knows that she ought not make such decisions for others, and waits for the adjudication of one of the ladies.
     She works diligently, and has soon reached the window, which stares blankly out toward the street, no curtains nor other dressings to often its gaze. The discolored paint is peeling away from the old wood of the sill, and she picks idly at one fragile curl. A long-dead vine lines the bottom of the window frame, its clay pot mottled from moisture and nutrients once pulled from now-barren soil. Clucking her tongue in unconscious echo of her mother, she gingerly sweeps the detritus on the sill into a small pile, then brushes it into a scrap of stained fabric to be thrown away. The pot, she sets aside a moment, intending to empty the depleted soil out the window into the neglected flowerbed beneath it. Frowning, she pushes at the window frame, making small sounds of frustration as it refuses to move. Pausing for breath a moment, she moves aside a child's chair, and steps up against the wall, directly in front of the obstinate window. From her new ground, she is able to gain better leverage against the stubborn wood, swollen by the warmth of late spring. Pushing again, se feels the frame give a tony, begrudging slide, and gasps in surprise as it quickly shoots upward, giving her barely time to stop pushing.
     She leans her light curls out the window a moment, feeling the late morning sun brighten her cheeks, and the rain-sweetened breeze freshen her spirit. "There now, a bit of air will help this old room loads, I bet."
     As she shifts her weight back to the drab interior, her hand jerks toward her apron in unconscious reaction, and she gasps involuntarily, having felt something brush against her glove. Her eyes quickly dart about - and she smiles abashedly to herself. "Only some old letters, the breeze must have moved them..." Inquisitively, she pulls the crumbling papers free from their place, jambed in along the window frame. Thin brows furrowing, she turns the bits of paper over and over, holding them up to the light, peering closely. Each piece is perhaps the size of her palm, the edges ragged and torn. The paper is a little thick, like that of a novelty book, however no lighthearted amusement is clumsily printed on the pages.
     Nothing at all is printed on the papers, nor written by any hand.
     Shrugging, she sighs and sets the scraps on the pile of trash. "I suppose no-one really ever finds mysterious old love letters... It certainly would be nice to." Turning back to her work, only half of her sight is locked in the room - the rest slips into idle daydream. A young woman, with her hair neatly pinned up and a soft flowing dress cascading down her slim frame, glides gracefully across the room to stand at the window. Peering out, her soft eyes scan the dusky, twilit street, and after a moment smile softly at her hopeful folly. With slender, delicate fingers, she carefully folds together a few small slips of paper, covered in fine script. She lovingly tucks he letters into the frame of the open window, fussing over them for a minute or so, tacking care hat they will remain in place until their recipient should come alone and retrieve them. Suddenly footsteps approach from another room, and---
     She turns quickly to a new pile, a few tattered jackets and old toys jumbled between long-unused furniture, bringing her attention back to the task at hand. Remembering the several small children in the Perkins family, she discards only those toys which are broken beyond all hope of repair - though most are quite aged, she knows they may yet be enjoyed. She smiles wryly as she lifts a rag doll from the pile, noting that one braid seems to be missing. Memory weaves through imagination, an she can see a younger brother, rather like her own, laughing and jeering as he runs from his sister's room, stolen doll dangling by her patchwork arm from his chubby fist.
     "Cecelia? How are you doing, dear?"
     Turning quickly about, she looks up at the beautiful yet imposing figure of her mother. hair tightly pinned, fine features firmly set, neat and exacting even in her work dress and apron.
     "I've gotten all the way to the window, Maman, and I'm almost to that cushioned chair over there. All of these are new, sorted piles."
     She nods, looking critically over the young girl's work. "You've done well, but do keep yourself from dawdling now, we still have much to do. I will send Ann in shortly, to help you here once she has finished her portion of the kitchen."
     She smiles and nods in acknowledgment, the dull, endless task ahead brightened by the prospect of someone to talk with. And Ann is an enjoyable conversationalist, always full of the most interesting stories about everyone in town, overheard from her mother's visitors at tea. And she had been meaning to ask if Ann had learned anything new about their school teacher's new beau - a few of their classmates had seen him once or twice, and he was terribly handsome, but little more is known of him, and they are all dying to uncover more.
     As her mother's footsteps recede from the room, she folds the coat in her arms, and adds it to a pile. Stepping in front of the window, she gazes through it a moment more, breathing in the spring air, her eyes passing idly through the years, seeing the trees grown smaller and larger, unnamed faces passing between them. her hands work of their own volition, folding a patched skirt, as she daydreams the ghosts of the room into amiable forms, changing them from fearful to familiar, extending her own fantasies of gossip, amusing herself while waiting for company to entertain her.