Dorothy Dale's engagement

The following day Dorothy was her old cheerful self—or so Tavia thought. They did not shop with such abandon, but took matters more easily. And they returned to the hotel for luncheon and for rest.

“But he isn’t here!” Tavia exclaimed, when they entered the big restaurant for the midday meal. “And I remember now he said last evening that he would probably be down town almost all day to-day—trying to sell that property of his, you know.”

“Who, dear?” asked Dorothy, with a far-away look on her face.

“Peleg Swift!” snapped Tavia. “You know very well of whom I am talking. Garry Owen!” and she hummed a few bars of the old, old march.

Garry certainly was not present; but Dorothy still smiled. They went out again and purchased a few more things. When they returned late in the afternoon the young Westerner was visible in the lobby the moment the girls came through the doorway.

But he was busy. He did not even see them. He was talking with two men of pronounced New York business type who might have been brokers or Wall Street men. All three sat on a lounge near the elevators, and Dorothy heard one of the strangers say crisply, as she and Tavia waited for a car:

“That’s our top price, I think, Mr. Knapp. And, of course, we cannot pay you any money until I have seen the land, save the hundred for the option. I shall be out in a fortnight, I believe. It must hang fire until then, even at this price.”

“Well, Mr. Stiffbold—it’s a bet!” Garry said, and Dorothy could imagine the secret sigh he breathed. Evidently, he was not getting the price for the wornout ranch that he had hoped.

The two girls went up in the elevator and later made their dinner toilet. To-night Dorothy was the one who took the most pains in her primping; but Tavia said never a word. Nevertheless, she “looked volumes.”

They were downstairs again not much later than half past six. Not a sign of Garry Knapp either in the lobby or in the dining-room. The girls ate their dinner slowly and “lived in hopes,” as Tavia expressed it.

Both were frankly hoping Garry would appear. Tavia was grateful to him for the part he had taken in the recovery of her bag; and, too, he was “nice.” Dorothy felt that she had misjudged the young Westerner, and she was fired with a desire to be particularly pleasant to him so as to salve over her secret compunctions of conscience.

“‘He cometh not, she said,’” Tavia complained. “What’s the matter with the boy, anyway? Can he be eating in the cafê with those two men?”

“Oh, Tavia!” suddenly exclaimed Dorothy. “You said he was going home to-day.”

“Oh—ah—yes. He did say he expected to get out for the West again some time to-day——”

“Maybe he’s go-o-one!” and Dorothy’s phrase was almost a wail.

“Goodness! Never! Without looking us up and saying a word of good-bye?”

Dorothy got up with determination. “I am going to find out,” she said. “I feel that I would like to see Mr. Knapp again.”

“Well! if I said a thing like that about a young man——”

However, Tavia let the remark trail off into silence and followed her chum. As they came out of the dining-room the broad shoulders and broad-brimmed hat of Garry Knapp were going through the street door!

“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: