She looked around the room: what an ugly, dreary little room it was!--dust, dirt, and cobwebs everywhere; her hood and shawl lying in one corner; her mother's apron on the floor in the middle of the room; the breakfast dishes not yet washed; the stove all spattered with grease from the pork gravy; the hearth thickly covered with ashes; the paper window-curtain hanging by one tack; and on the mantelpiece, behind the stove, such an array of half-eaten apples, matches, forks, sticky spoons, broken teacups, and dirty candlesticks, as would have frightened any one less used to it than was Kitty.

As she looked around her, a forlorn smile came over her face, for she thought of Mr.Holbrook's words: "When you brush up the floor, or brighten the fire to please your mother"-- "He don't know," she said to herself, "that mother don't care for sweeping and such things; he don't know how we live.

I wonder if mother _would_ notice now if things were different.

What if we did live like other folks,--had nice tilings, and kept them put up, and the room swept.
Suppose I try it.

What could I do?
I might sweep and wash off the stove, and--and clean off the mantelpiece.