"I guess papa's gone," said Jessica. The latter's school news was of a particular stripe. "They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs," she reported one day, "and I'm going to be in it." "Are you?" said her mother. "Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in the school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the part of Portia." "Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood. "They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can act." "Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood sympathetically. "They haven't anything, have they?" "No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice." She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the school, many of whom were attracted by her beauty. "What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening; "that Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me." "Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood. "Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just a student there. He hasn't anything." The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of Blyford, the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs. Hurstwood was on the third floor, sitting in a rocking-chair reading, and happened to look out at the time. "Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica came upstairs. "It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied. "Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him," explained Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs. "All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Don't be gone long." As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of the window. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most satisfactory.