you were going to write some new songs after the
wedding.''

``I was,'' sighed Billy, walking to the window,
and looking listlessly at the bare, brown world
outside; ``but I can't write songs--when there
aren't any songs in my head to write.''

``No, of course not; but they'll come, dear, in
time. You're tired, now,'' soothed Aunt Hannah,
as she turned to leave the room.

``It's the reaction, of course,'' murmured Aunt
Hannah to herself, on the way up-stairs. ``She's
had the whole thing on her hands--dear child!''

A few minutes later, from the living-room,
came a plaintive little minor melody. Billy was
at the piano.

Kate and little Kate had, the night before, gone
home with William. It had been a sudden
decision, brought about by the realization that
Bertram's trip to New York would leave William
alone. Her trunk was to be carried there to-day,
and she would leave for home from there, at the
end of a two or three days' visit.

It began to snow at twelve o'clock. All the
morning the sky had been gray and threatening;