ation, and after vainly rapping several times, they had finally
brought a parasol and hammered upon the horseshoe tacked upon the door,
until at last it opened just about an inch. And then she was invited.

But, indeed, it is time to be telling how the party originated.

It had been the habit of the Frey children, since they could remember,
to save up spare coins all the year for a special fund which they called
"Christmas money."

The old fashion of spending these small amounts in presents for one
another had long ago given place to the better one--more in the
Christmas spirit--of using it to brighten the day for some one less
blessed than themselves.

It is true that on the Christmas before the one of this story they had
broken the rule, or only strained it, perhaps, to buy a little stove for
their mother's room.

But a rule that would not stretch enough to take in such a home need
would be a poor one indeed.

This year they had had numerous schemes, but somehow none had seemed to
appeal to the stockholders in the Christmas firm, and so they had
finally called a meeting on the subject.

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' s