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.