"I—I can't tell you how hard I want to win it," gasped Jess.
"Well! I'm going to try for it, too," laughed Laura, suddenly, seizing her friend's arm and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "But I do hope, if I can't win it, that you do!"
"Thank you, Laura!" replied her friend, gravely.
"And your mother's a writer—you must have talent, too, for writing, Jess."
"That doesn't follow, I guess," laughed Jess. "You know that Si Jones talks like a streak of greased lightning—so Chet says, anyway—but his son, Phil, is a deaf-mute. Talent for writing runs in families the same as wooden legs."
"So you do not believe that even a little reflected glory bathes your path through life?" chuckled Laura.
"I am not sure that I would want to be a professional writer like mother," sighed Jess, her mind dwelling on the trouble they were in. "There is a whole lot to it besides 'glory.'"
"Well, if I can't write the winning play, I hope you do, Jess," repeated Laura, going on after her father.
Jess returned to her work indoors. From the window, after a little, she caught sight of a whole string of boys sliding up the hill of Whiffle
