Aunt Hilda went over to one of the windows and, after a short struggle, managed to open it wide. The first fresh air in more than fifty years came into the room, chilly, but it brought a smell of spring. Beside the window, heavy curtains of torn damask flapped softly, shaking down more dust. Julian came into the room carrying a stepladder that he'd found in the laundry. "What are you going to do, Jule?" asked Portia. "I want to set the chandelier free," he said, opening the ladder and ascending. "Hold onto it, will you, Porsh? I don't know how strong it is." Standing on tiptoe, he began to unfasten the dark baize cover of the chandelier; dust smoked up from it; dead moths, dead spiders, dead gnats showered down. "Ow, watch it, Jule!" protested Portia, spitting out dried moth wings. "You're all right; you've got your head tied up in a rag. All you have to do is keep your mouth closed, but I can hardly breathe," Julian said, and sneezed six times, as if to prove his point. "Look out below!" he called in a moment, and Portia skipped aside as the baize bag dropped to the floor in a cloudy heap. "Wow! Look at that!" shouted Foster. "It's like an upside-down fountain!" And that was the way the chandelier did look. Elaborate, sparkling, it had been closed away from dust all these years, and its many lusters trembled, fresh and bright as drops of ice water. "What a lovely thing!" cried Aunt Hilda. "Barbara, do you realize what you have? A Waterford chandelier!" "Waterford? Really? Yes, I do believe it is!" Mrs. Blake's face, which had been rather worried and upset, began at once to have another look. Foster jumped up and down as hard as he could to see if he could make the chandelier tinkle, and he did: it even _sounded_ like ice water, or like the pieces of ice in ice water. "Foster, for pity's sake, stop!" said his mother. "Julian, as long as you've brought the ladder, would you mind taking down those dreary curtains? And now let's start our house cleaning." Soon they were all at work; even Foster had a cloth, which he flapped and whacked at everything, stirring up much more dust than he disposed of. "It's fun to sweep and clean when there's plenty of _real dirt_," Portia said enthusiastically, wielding her broom. "The trouble is there's not usually enough to make anything look any better when you're through." Outdoors the men still banged and hammered at the window boards, with Davey supervising. Indoors there was a commotion of sweeping and sneezing. The gloomy curtains dropped from their rods, pair by pair, and each time the room grew lighter. Already it seemed a different place. Somewhere outside a bird began to sing: a real bird, not a sparrow, not a jay; and then, as if the whistling song had been a signal, the sun came out.