That evening when she went down to dinner she was purposely late that she might avoid both men. Elwyn Cadwallader was out of town, she learned, called away unexpectedly on business. Hume Sherwood, after having been with her father all day, up on the mountain, had just returned--going directly to his room. He had declined dinner. Almost any man can bear censure, but it takes a giant to brave ridicule. When Miss Blaine went back to her room she found two letters awaiting her. She read the first with the angry blood mounting to her forehead, and lips tightened into a straight, hard line. It was from Cadwallader. He closed by saying: “Give me the one thing I most want in all the world! I will go to you Christmas morning for it--for your ‘yes!’” Miss Blaine’s face was very stern as with quick, firm steps she walked across the floor to the stove in which a fire was burning cheerily. She opened the door and flung the letter into the flames. The letter from her father was hurriedly scrawled, “so that Sherwood can take it down to you,” it said. There were but a dozen brief sentences: He couldn’t be with her, after all, on Christmas eve--he had about closed the deal with Akerman, and there was much business to settle up. She was to pack their suit-cases and trunks at once; to be ready to start home any day. He hoped (didn’t know--but hoped) to leave the evening of Christmas day, etc. There was a postscript: “Akerman (acting on my advice) bought Sherwood’s little group today for seven hundred and fifty dollars; which is just seven hundred and fifty dollars more than they are worth--as mining claims. But Akerman wants the ground for other purposes, and will use it in connection with his other property. I’m glad for the boy’s sake he got it, for I guess Sherwood needed the money. Of course he hasn’t said so (he’s too much of a thoroughbred to whimper) but I don’t believe he has a nickel left.” Evaleen Blaine laid the letter down with a tender smile on her face. “Dear old Daddy!” she murmured. She understood the sympathetic heart which had been the factor in bringing about the sale of Sherwood’s claims. “Oh, Daddy, you’re good--good! I love you!” Four or five hours after, she had finished packing and got up from where she had been kneeling, and looked about the room. Everything was folded away in place and awaiting the turning of the key, except the khaki suit and the wide-brimmed hat. She would soon be miles and miles away from Nevada and its joys. A very sober face looked out at her from the mirror, making her force her thoughts into other channels. “Not spend Christmas eve with you, Daddy? ’Deed, an’ I will! I’ll just astonish you tomorrow morning!”