“Twenty-five dollars,” said Robin. “Well, that’s not much after nearly six years; but we saved it nearly all by cents, you know, Meg.”
“And it takes a hundred cents to make a dollar,” said Meg; “and we were poor people’s children.”
“And we bought the chickens,” said Robin.
“And you have always given me a present at Christmas, Robin, even if it was only a little one. That’s six Christmases.”
“We have eight months to work in,” said Robin, calculating. “If you get four dollars a month, and I get four, that will be sixty-four dollars by next June. Twenty-five dollars and sixty-four dollars make eighty-nine. Eighty-nine dollars for us to live on and go to see all the things; because we must see them all, if we go. And I suppose we shall have to come back”—with a long breath.
“Oh, dear!” cried Meg, “how can we come back?”
“I don’t know,” said Robin. “We shall hate it, but we have nowhere else to go.”
“Perhaps we are going to seek our fortunes, and perhaps we shall find them,” said Meg; “or perhaps Aunt Matilda won’t let us come back. Rob,” with some awe, “do you think she will be angry?”
“I’ve thought about that,” Robin answered contemplatively, “and I don’t think she will. She would be too busy to care much even if we ran away and said nothing. But I shall leave a letter, and tell her we have saved our money and gone somewhere for a holiday, and we’re all right, and she need not bother.”
“She won’t bother even if she is angry,” Meg said, with mournful eyes. “She doesn’t care about us enough.”