“Have you written any new songs lately?” “No.” “You're going to?” “Perhaps--if I find one to write.” “You mean--you have no words?” “Yes--and no. I have some words, both of my own and other people's; but I haven't found in any one of them, yet--a melody.” Arkwright hesitated. His right hand went almost to his inner coat pocket--then fell back at his side. The next moment he picked up a sheet of music. “Are you too tired to try this?” he asked. A puzzled frown appeared on Billy's face. “Why, no, but--” “Well, children, I've come down to hear the 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.