he music," announced Aunt
Hannah, smilingly, from the doorway; "only--Billy, _will_ you run up
and get my pink shawl, too? This room _is_ colder than I thought, and
there's only the white one down here."

"Of course," cried Billy, rising at once. "You shall have a dozen
shawls, if you like," she laughed, as she left the room.

What a cozy time it was--the hour that followed, after Billy returned
with the pink shawl! Outside, the wind howled at the windows and flung
the snow against the glass in sleety crashes. Inside, the man and the
girl sang duets until they were tired; then, with Aunt Hannah, they
feasted royally on the buttered toast, tea, and frosted cakes that
Rosa served on a little table before the roaring fire. It was then that
Arkwright talked of himself, telling them something of his studies, and
of the life he was living.

"After all, you see there's just this difference between my friends
and yours," he said, at last. "Your friends _are_ doing things. They've
succeeded. Mine haven't, yet--they're only _trying_."

"But they will succeed," cried Billy.

"Some of them," amended the man.

"Not--all of them?" Billy looked a little troubled.

Arkwright shook his head slowly.

"No. They couldn't--all of them, you know. Some haven't the talent, some
haven't the perseverance, and some haven't the money."

"But all that seems such a pity-when they've tried," grieved Billy.

"It is a pity, Miss Neilson. Disappointed hopes are always a pity,
aren't they?"

"Y-yes," sighed the girl. "But--if there were only something one could
do to--help!"

Arkwright's eyes grew deep with feeling, but his voice, when he spoke,
was purposely light.

"I'm afraid that would be quite too big a contract for even your
generosity, Miss Neilson--to mend all the broken hopes in the world," he
prophesied.

"I have known great good to come from great disappointments," remarked
Aunt Hannah, a bit didactically.

"So have I," laughed Arkwright, still determined to drive the troubled
shadow from the face he was watching so intently. "For instance: a
fellow I know was feeling all cut up last Friday because he was just too
late to get into Symphony Hall on the twenty-five-cent admission. Half
an hour afterwards his disappointment was turned to joy--a friend who
had an orchestra chair couldn't use his ticket that day, and so handed
it over to him."

Billy turned interestedly.

"What are those twenty-five-cent tickets to the Sympho