"The thing we want," said Meg, "is the Roll to read as we go on, and find out what we are to do."
And then they talked of what was before them. They wondered who would be at the little depôt, and if they would be noticed, and of what the ticket-agent would think when Robin bought the tickets.
"Perhaps he won't notice me at all," said Rob; "and he does not know me. Somebody might be sending us alone, you know. We are not little children."
"That's true," responded Meg courageously. "If we were six years old it would be different; but we are twelve."
It did make it seem less lonely to be talking, and so they did not stop. And there was so much to say.
"Robin," broke forth Meg once, giving his hand a sudden clutch, "we are on the way —we are going. Soon we shall be on the train, and it will be carrying us nearer and nearer! Suppose it was a dream, and we should wake up!"
"It isn't a dream," said Rob stoutly; "it's real. It's—as real as Aunt Matilda."
He was always more practical-minded than Meg.
"We needn't philander any more," Meg said. "It isn't philandering to talk about a real thing. Oh,
