The magnet attracting a waif amid forces

particularly cared to see. 
Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of the woman who has ever endeavoured to 
shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior 
capability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extended to that 
little conventional round of society of which she was not—but longed to be—
a member. She was not without realisation already that this thing was 
impossible, so far as she was concerned. For her daughter, she hoped better 
things. Through Jessica she might rise a little. Through George, Jr.'s, 
possible success she might draw to herself the privilege of pointing proudly. 
Even Hurstwood was doing well enough, and she was anxious that his small 
real estate adventures should prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were 
rather small, but his income was pleasing and his position with Fitzgerald 
and Moy was fixed. Both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather 
informal terms with him. 

---

The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be apparent to 
all. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, all of which were of the 
same calibre. 
"I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George, Jr., at the dinner 
table one Friday evening. 
"What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood. 
"Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come up and 
see how it works." 
"How much did it cost him?" asked his mother. 
"Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy." 
"Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood. 
"He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vega-cura to Australia 
now—said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week." 
"Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four years ago they had 
that basement in Madison Street." 
"Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next spring in 
Robey Street." 
"Just think of that!" said Jessica. 
On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early. 
"I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising. 
"Are we going to McVickar's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood, without 
rising. 
"Yes," he said indifferently. 
They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat. Presently 
the door clicked. 
"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. 
In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, not 
thinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature to trouble for 
something better, unless the better was immediately and sharply contrasted. 
As it was, he received and gave, irritated sometimes by the little displays of 
selfish indifference, pleased at times by some show of finery which 
supposedly made for dignity and social distinction. The life of the resort 
which he managed was his life. There he spent most of his time. When he 
went home evenings the house looked nice. With rare exceptions the meals 
were acceptable, being the kind that an ordinary servant can arrange. In