Inanimate things, the poets to the contrary, do not share human moods. When Loring returned to his desk in the office the typewriter, instead of showing the least sympathy, behaved abominably. Ordinarily the letter “J” on a well-constructed machine is on the side, and little used. But this afternoon it seemed to insist on beginning every word, and the effect on the business letters which should have been composed was not beneficial. But this is perhaps explained by the few terse words concluding the pamphlet of directions which accompanied the machine: “No machine ever made is fool proof.” So Loring had the extra task of carefully proofreading all his letters. Being in love always has one of two effects on a man’s work. He either does twice as much work half as well, or half as much work twice as well; but no man truly in love has been able to reverse these, and double both his zeal and efficiency. This kind of inspiration has a singular disregard for detail, and when it does deign to notice the minute side of things, it magnifies them to such an extent that the ultimate aim is likely to be obscured. As proof of the above statement, between luncheon and supper time, Stephen accomplished twice his usual amount of work with a little less than half his customary efficiency.

His work done, Loring banged the cover onto the typewriter with a little more force than was necessary, for if inanimate things cannot share moods, they are still delightful objects on which to vent overwrought feelings. Stephen’s hat was on the table behind the swivel chair, and it was characteristic of him that he used great exertion to secure it without rising, twisting the chair into positions which defied all the laws of gravity. Having set the soft hat at its accustomed slightly tilted angle, he lit his pipe and frowned at the garish appearance of the yellow oak of his desk. Then he rose with the indecisive motion of one who, when on his feet, wonders why he has left his chair. Ordinarily Stephen was a trifle late at supper on account of staying to lock up the office, and to-night from an illogical dread of the thing which he half longed for, half wished to avoid, a talk with Jean, he did not reach the table until all the others had left.

Wah glided in from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee which he set before Stephen, together with the choicest selections from the supper which he had as usual saved for him. When Loring rose from the table, leaving the larger portion of his meal uneaten, Wah looked at him reproachfully from the inscrutable depths of his slanting eyes.

Baird Radlett, Jean, and a few others were still gathered on the porch when Stephen stepped outside. They were gazing intently down the valley to the westward at the glorious afterglow in the sky, where, but an instant before, the red rim of the sun had flashed before dipping behind the hills. All were silent with that quietness which is brought forth by moments of absolute beauty. Loring’s step and voice aroused them, and all save Jean turned quickly. Baird saw a color in Jean’s cheeks far richer and softer than the deep rose hue in the skies. He glanced quickly from her to the man standing above her, who was looking down at her with adoration in his gaze. For one second his love for the girl battled with his friendship for the man, and Radlett realized the full bitterness of the sacrifice that he was making. Then friendship conquered, and he comprehended and sympathized with the sorrow which to-night made Loring’s face look singularly old.

Stephen stayed with them only a few minutes before returning to the office to play the old, old game of burying thought beneath routine.

Radlett and Jean were left alone on the steps. Baird watched Stephen until he was hidden by the angle of the office.

“Loring,” he said suddenly, turning to Jean, “has been working fifteen hours a day for the last six months. He cannot stand it. I am afraid for him.”

“Afraid for his—for his—” she hesitated moment, “for his health?”

“Yes, and only for his health,”, answered Radlett decisively. He rose to his feet as if to gain strength for what he was going to say. Then he seated himself again on the step beside her. Drawing a deep breath he began: “Jean, you are not looking well, either.”

Jean murmured something about the fatigue of the journey from the East.

“No,” said Radlett firmly, “it is not that. It is something deeper than that. You know it is, and I know it, too, so let there be no concealments between us!”

“What do you know? How do you know it?” Jean stammered.

“A man knows some things by instinct,” Radlett answered. “I think I should have found this out before long, anyhow; but your face, dear, is not good at concealments, and when I saw your eyes, which had been sad from the time we met in Tucson, suddenly light at the sight of Loring in the office here, when heard the little catch in your voice (Jean, I know every tone of your voice by heart) and when I saw and heard you, I knew!”

“Oh, Baird!”

“Never mind,” exclaimed Radlett, “we will not talk of that any more. I only wanted you to understand that we must be quite frank with each other, and that thus everything will come out right. Now tell me how things stand with you.”

“How can I, Baird? To you, of all people?”

“You can and you must, just because I am I and you are you, and your happiness concerns me more than anything in the world. You love Stephen Loring. You are miserable about him. Why?”

“I will tell you,” answered Jean slowly, looking intently out into the darkness. “I will tell you why I am afraid for him, because you are his friend as you are mine, and you will understand. I am afraid that it is only for my sake that he has made his reform, and I told him to-day that I did not quite trust him, and that—oh, Baird, you must understand!”

Radlett bowed his head in grave assent. “Yes, I understand.”

“But,” Jean went on, “if you think that this will cause him to fall again, I cannot bear it; for Baird, I do care for him, and if this is his last chance, I will give it to him.”

Radlett grasped her hand firmly in his own and bent over her. No crisis of his life had ever taxed his self-control like this.

“Jean,” he said slowly, “he does not need you. Do you suppose that if he did I should think him worthy the great gift of your love?” Baird’s voice broke, in spite of himself; but he controlled it and went on: “Stephen has fought his fight and won it as it must be won—alone. Do you know what he has been since he left your father? Do you know of the way he behaved in that fight in Mexico, of the way in which he has saved the mine here, of the strength, the powers, the self-discipline that he has shown. It must be something stronger than his love for a woman that will save such a man as Loring, when he has once started down hill. Stephen had that ‘something stronger.’ God help him, it cut to the bone! Since that accident, Loring has never been quite his old self. I am afraid he never will be, that he will always be under a cloud, but Jean, it saved him. He has won his fight without you, and for that reason he is worthy of you.” Baird felt the fingers in his own tighten in their grasp. “Jean,” he went on, “you know how I have cared for you ever since we were children, and how, although you did not care,” he cut short her protestation quickly, “and how although you did not care in that way, I love you now above anything on earth.”

The tears gathered hot in Jean’s eyes.

“You know that as I told you a moment ago your happiness is the highest thing in the world to me, and I say to you: if you love Stephen, marry him. If you do not love him, then I am sorry for him, but I am not afraid for him. I am proud of him.”

“He must be a man, Baird, to have such a friend as you.”

A deep silence fell between them. Then Radlett rose suddenly, for he knew his endurance could stand no more. He bent over her hand and kissed it tenderly. Then with a heart-rendingly cheerful “good night,” he strode off into the darkness towards his quarters.

For an hour Jean sat on the steps, watching the lights of the camp, as one by one they were extinguished, until one light alone burned. It was in the window of the office. There she knew a man was working steadily and bravely, and her heart beat irregularly as the realization came, that it was the man whom with her whole heart she loved and trusted for all the future, whatever might have been the past. The hot blood came surging into her cheeks only to recede and leave them pale.

Rising, she walked slowly across to the office. She hesitated a moment, her hand on the door-knob, then throwing back her head proudly, she opened the door softly and entered. Her bearing was that of a soldier who surrenders without prejudice to his pride.

Loring was bending over his work and did not see her as she stood in the doorway. She watched his pen toiling over the paper before him. The drooping dejection in his whole attitude cried out to her of his need for her.

“Stephen!” she half whispered.

The man jumped to his feet, startled by the sound of the voice of which he had been thinking. He turned to her, his face white and tense with the strain of wonder and surprise. In three steps he crossed the room to her.

“Is anything wrong?” he exclaimed anxiously.

“Yes, something is wrong,” she answered, looking steadily into his eyes. “I was wrong. I told you that I did not trust you. I do.”

“Jean,” he gasped, half suffocated. “Do you mean that after I had broken my word to you at Quentin, you could possibly forgive?”

“I forgave that at the time.”

His face was drawn with the conflict between an impossible hope and a desperate fear.

“That was the only time in my life that I ever broke my word, Jean, but breaking it to you made it impossible for you to believe in me. You told me so this morning, and I realized it. You forgive me that now,” he cried, with a sudden flash of intuition, “because you are afraid that in losing you, I shall lose myself again. Jean, though you are all there is in life for me, I will not let you sacrifice yourself to your splendid sympathy. Dearest, can’t you see that, as you said; if there were a shadow of doubt on your mind you could never be happy with me?”

“It was not what you think which made me say I did not trust you. It was something, Stephen, which I know would be impossible in the man you are now. I could not put your dishonesty to your guardian out of my mind, until I realized that that was no more a part of the Stephen Loring I know now than the faults which I had forgiven.”

Loring looked at her in amazement. “My dishonesty towards my guardian?” he exclaimed. “Jean, dear, what do you mean?”

“I was told,” she said sadly, “that you had borrowed heavily from him, and never returned the loan; but we can pay it back together,” she went on bravely.

“Jean, every cent that I ever borrowed, I paid him when I came into my own money. I don’t know or care where you heard the story, but the only part of it that is true is that I did abuse his good nature and ask him to advance me out of his own fortune the amount that he held in trust for me.” The impossible hope conquered the fear in his face. He seized both of her hands in his and spoke breathlessly.

“Jean, dearest, was that why you did not trust me?”

She looked up at him with her eyes glowing with a new feeling. The love that had sprung from pity had grown into the love based on pride.

“Do not let us talk of that now,” she whispered, “but of the present—and—and the future!”

Stephen drew her to him with a passion which only those who have despaired can feel. He bowed his head and kissed her as for months he had dreamed of doing. He trembled violently as his lips met hers; trembled with wonder, with adoration, with perfect happiness. He held her tightly in his arms, as though afraid that all was not real, that he might yet lose her, as if he drew strength and life from the heart that beat against his own.

The present redeemed the past and glorified the future. Through sin and shame, through failure and humiliation, he had at last found his strength, and before him in golden promise stretched the up grade.

Mr. Oppenheim’s Latest Novel

By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Illustrated by Will Foster. Cloth. $1.50

Mr. Oppenheim’s new story is a narrative of mystery and international intrigue that carries the reader breathless from page to page. It is the tale of the secret and world-startling methods employed by the Emperor of Japan through Prince Maiyo, his close kinsman, to ascertain the real reasons for the around-the-world cruise of the American fleet. The American Ambassador in London and the Duke of Denvenham, an influential Englishman, work hand in hand to circumvent the Oriental plot, which proceeds mysteriously to the last page. From the time when Mr. Hamilton Fynes steps from the Lusitania into a special tug, in his mad rush towards London, to the very end, the reader is carried from deep mystery to tense situations, until finally the explanation is reached in a most unexpected and unusual climax.

No man of this generation has so much facility of expression, so many technical resources, or so fine a power of narration as Mr. E. Phillips Oppenheim.—Philadelphia Inquirer.

Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious plots and weaving them around attractive characters.—London Morning Post.

LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers
34 Beacon Street, Boston