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