“Oh!” gasped Dorothy. “He’s going!” added Tavia, stricken quite as motionless. “Going——” “Gone!” ended Tavia, sepulchrally. “It’s all off, Dorothy. Garry Knapp, of Desert City, has departed.” “Oh, we must stop him—speak to him——” Dorothy started for the door and Tavia, nothing loath, followed at a sharp pace. Just as they came out into the open street a car stopped before the hotel door and Garry Knapp, “bag and baggage” stepped aboard. He did not even look back! As the girls returned to the hotel lobby the two men with whom they had seen Garry Knapp earlier in the evening, were passing out. They lingered while one of the men lit his cigar, and Dorothy heard the second man speaking. “I could have paid him spot cash for the land right here and been sure of a bargain, Lightly. I know just where it is and all about it. But it will do no harm to let the thing hang fire till I get out there. Perhaps, if I’m not too eager, I can get him to knock off a few dollars per acre. The boy wants to sell—that’s sure.” “Uh-huh!” grunted the one with the cigar. “It’ll make a tidy piece of wheat land without doubt, Stiffbold. You go for it!” They passed out then and the girl who had listened followed her friend slowly to the elevator, deep in thought. She said not a word until they were upstairs again. Perhaps her heart was really too full just then for utterance. As they entered Dorothy’s room the girls saw that the maid had been in during their absence at dinner. There was a long box, unmistakably a florist’s box, on the table. “Oh, see what’s here!” cried Tavia, springing forward. The card on the box read: “Miss Dale.” “For you!” cried Tavia. “What meaneth it, fair Lady Dorothy? Hast thou made a conquest already? Some sweet swain——” “I don’t believe you know what a ‘sweet swain’ is,” laughed Dorothy. Her fingers trembled as she untied the purple cord. Tavia asked, with increased curiosity: “Who can they be from, Doro? Flowers, of course!” Dorothy said nothing in reply; but in her heart she knew—she knew! The cord was untied at last, the tissue paper, all fragrant and dewy, lifted. “Why!” said Tavia, rather in disappointment and doubt. “Not roses—or chrysanthemums—or—or——” “Or anything foolish!” finished Dorothy, firmly. She lifted from their bed of damp moss a bouquet of the simplest old-fashioned flowers; mignonette, and several long-stemmed, dewy violets and buttercups, pansies, forget-me-nots—— “He must have been robbing all the old-fashioned gardens around New York,” said Tavia. “But that’s a lovely ribbon—and yards of it.” Dorothy did not speak at first. The cost of the gift meant nothing to her. Yet she knew that the monetary value of such a bouquet in New York must be far above what was ordinarily paid for roses and the like. A note was nestling in the stems. She opened it and read: “Dear Miss Dale: