"Impossible," he cried in a deep voice.

"Chet," she said, speaking quickly, "I have seventy-five cents myself,
and that with your dollar--"

"Dollar fifteen," Chet corrected gravely.

"Will make quite a respectable start to our fund." And she was off up the
stairs in her turn, making almost as much noise as Chet had done.

In a moment she was back again with the precious seventy-five cents and a
small tin box.

"Here's the bank," she cried gayly. "It will be real fun filling it up."

"Yes, but where are we going to get the money to fill it up with?" Chet
reminded her and her bright face fell again.

"Oh, we'll find a way," she said with a confidence she was far from
feeling. "Maybe Dad will help a little."

"Have you told him about it?" asked Chet.

"No. But I will to-night," she said, with a little sinking feeling. "I
hate to tell him, awfully, but I suppose I'll have to."

"Well, don't worry anyway," said Chet, patting her shoulder reassuringly.
"You know Dad says worry is a waste of time, because everything will all
be the same a hundred years from now."