It was at this meeting that Meg, fourteen years old, having taken the floor, said: "Well, it seems to me that the worst kind of a Christmas must be a lonely one. Just think how nearly all the roomers in this house spent last Christmas—most of 'em sittin' by their lone selves in their rooms, and some of 'em just eatin' every-day things! The Professor hadn't a thing but Bologna-sausage and crackers. I know—'cause I peeped. An' now, whatever you all are goin' to do with your money, mine's goin' right into this house, to the roomers—some way."
"If we knew what we could do, Meg?" said Ethel.
"If we knew what we could do or how we could do it," interrupted Conrad, "why, I'd give my eighty-five cents in a minute. I'd give it to the old Professor to have his curls cut."
Conrad was a true-hearted fellow, but he was full of mischief.
"Shame on you, Buddy!" said Meg, who was thoroughly serious. "Can't you be in earnest for just a minute?"
"I am in earnest, Meg. I think your scheme is bully—if it could be worked; but the Professor wouldn't take our money any more'n we'd take his."
"Neither would any of them." This was Ethel's first real objection.
"Who's goin' to offer 'em money?" rejoined Meg.
"I tell you what we might do, maybe," Conrad suggested, dubiously. "We might buy a lot of fine grub, an' send it in to 'em sort o' mysteriously. How'd that do?"
"'Twouldn't do at all," Meg replied. "The idea! Who'd enjoy the finest Christmas dinner in the world by his lone self, with nothin' but a lookin'-glass to look into and holler 'Merry Christmas' to?"