“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 Symphony?”