“You bet you do!” ejaculated Tavia, vigorously. “Just at present that young cowboy person is caring more for money than Ananias did. Money looks bigger to him than anything else in the world. With money he could have you, Doro Doodlekins—don’t you see?” “But he can have me without!” wailed Dorothy, burying her head in the pillow. “Oh, no he can’t,” Tavia said wisely and quietly. “You know he can’t. If you could tempt him to throw up his principles in the matter, you know very well, Doro, that you would be heartbroken.” “What?” “Yes you would. You wouldn’t want a young man dangling after you who had thrown aside his self-respect for a girl. Now, would you?” And without waiting for an answer she continued: “Not that I approve of his foolishness. Some men _are_ that way, however. Thank heaven I am not a man.” “Oh! I’m glad you’re not, either,” confessed Dorothy with her soft lips now against Tavia’s cheek. “Thank you, ma’am. I have often thought I’d like to be of the hemale persuasion; but never, no more!” declared Tavia, with vigor. “Suppose _I_ should then be afflicted with an ingrowing conscience about taking money from the woman I married? Whe-e-e-ew!” “He wouldn’t have to,” murmured Dorothy, burying her head again and speaking in a muffled voice. “I’d give up the money.” “And if he had any sense or unselfishness at all he wouldn’t let you do _that_,” snapped Tavia. “No. You couldn’t get along without much money now, Dorothy.” “Nonsense——” “It is the truth. I know I should be hopelessly unhappy myself if I had to go home and live again just as they do there. I have been spoiled,” said Tavia, her voice growing lugubrious. “I want wealth—luxuries—and everything good that money buys. Yes, Doro, when it comes _my_ time to become engaged, I must get a wealthy man or none at all. I shall be put up at auction——” “Tavia! How you talk! Ridiculous!” exclaimed Dorothy. “You talk like a heathen.” “Am one when it comes to money matters,” groaned the girl. “I have got to marry money——” “If Nat White were as poor as a church mouse, you’d marry him in a minute!” “Oh—er—well,” sighed Tavia, “Nat is not going to ask me, I am afraid.” “He would in a minute if you’d tell him about those Lance Petterby letters.” “Don’t you dare tell him, Dorothy Dale!” exclaimed Tavia, almost in fear. “You must not. Now, promise.” “I have promised,” her friend said gloomily. “And see that you stick to it. I know,” said Tavia, “that I could bring Nat back to me by explaining. But there should be no need of explaining. He should know that—that—oh, well, what’s the use of talking! It’s all off!” and Tavia flounced around and buried her nose in the pillow. Dorothy’s wits were at work, however. In the morning she “put a flea in Ned’s ear,” as Tavia would have said, and Ned hurried off to the telegraph office to send a day letter to his brother. Dorothy did not censor that telegraph despatch or this section of it would never have gone over the wire: