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?”