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The silent couple, drinking their coffee outside, drew a long mutual sigh.

“Every day,” said Mrs. Thorne, “we wonder why we stay in such a place, and every evening we are cajoled into thinking there never can be such another day. And the beauty is just as fresh every night as the heat is preposterous by day.”

“It’s a great strain on the men,” said Mr. Thorne. “We lost two of our best hands this week–threw down their tools and quit, for some tomfoolery they wouldn’t have noticed a month ago. The bosses irritate the men, and the men get fighting mad in a minute. Not one of them will bear the weight of a word, and I don’t blame them. The work is hard enough in decent weather; they are dropping off sick every day. The night-shift boys can’t sleep in their hot little houses—they look as if they’d all been on a two weeks’ tear. The next improvement we make I shall build a rest-house where the night-shift can turn in and sleep inside of stone walls, without crying babies and scolding wives clattering around. This heat every summer costs us thousands of dollars in delays, from wear and tear and extra strain–tempers and nerves giving out, men getting frantic and jerking things. I believe it breeds a form of acute mania when it keeps on like this.”

“Yes, the point of view changes the instant the sun goes down,” said Mrs. Thorne. “I am glad I did not send my letter. Will you let me read it to you, Henry?”

“Not now; let us enjoy the peace of God while it lasts.” He stretched himself on his back on the rattan lounge, and folded his hands on that part of his person which illustrated, geographically speaking, the great Continental Divide. The locked hands rose softly up and down. His wife fanned him in silence.

He turned his head and looked at her; her tired eyes, the dragged lines about her mouth, disturbed his sense of rest. He took the fan from her and returned her attention vigorously. “Please don’t!” she said with a little teased laugh. She rearranged the lock he had blown across her forehead. His larger help she needed, but he had seldom known how to pet her in little ways.

“I think you ought to let me read it to you,” she said. “There is nothing so difficult as telling the truth, even about one’s self, and when it’s another person”–

“That’s what I claim; she is the only one who can tell it.”

“This is a case of first aid to the injured,” she sighed. “I may not be a surgeon, but I must do what I can for my son.”

Then there was silence; the valley grew dimmer, the sky nearer and more intense.

“Yes, the night forgives the day,” after a while she said; “it even forgets. And we forget what we were, and what we did, when we were young. What is the use of growing old if we can’t learn to forgive?” she vaguely pleaded; and suddenly she began to weep.

The rattle of a miner’s cart broke in upon them; it stopped at the gate. Mr. Thorne half rose and looked out; a man was hurrying up the walk. He waved with his cane for him to stop where he was. Messengers at this hour were usually bearers of bad news, and he did not choose that his wife should know all the troubles of the mines.

The two men conversed together at the gate; then Mr. Thorne returned to explain.

“I must go over to the office a moment, and I may have to go to the power-house.”

“Is anybody hurt?”

“Only a pump. Don’t think of things, dear. Just keep cool while you can.”

“For pity’s sake, there is a carriage!” Mrs. Thorne exclaimed. “We are going to have a visitor. Fancy making calls after such a day as this!”

Mr. Thorne hurried away with manlike promptitude in the face of a social obligation. The mistress stepped inside and gave an order to Ito.