For the first time since the struggle had begun Baird thought of himself. He was fearfully tired, sore and aching and wet; he was wet and caked with mud almost to his waist. He was experiencing the reaction. Depression settled upon him.... So it was Edward she loved. That sort of love would hold for a long time; there was no hope for him.... That she had not been crushed or broken was one of the wonders, but she was not out of danger--her spine might be injured.... A wave of anger swept Baird, arousing him a little from depression: where were her people throughout all this tragedy? Why had they left her alone in the house for Garvin to mislead? For that must have been the way of it--he had told her a half-truth in order to get her away.... Then he sank back into depression. When the clock struck two, Baird looked up at the slowly-traveling hands; the next would be the deadest hour of the night. XXXIV BEN BROKAW EXPLAINS "Does she know about Edward?" Baird asked of Ben. He had followed Ben to the barn, and that was his first anxious question. "Yes. I tol' her. She had to be told--I couldn't keep it from her. I tol' her before Sue come." "God! How did she take it?" Ben's eyes lighted. "Like a Penniman--or a Westmo' would take it!" "You had courage," Baird breathed in relief. "I didn't dare tell her." "I knowed who I talked to," Ben returned deeply. "Ann growed up under my han'--I know the blood that's in Ann. She's got courage, Ann has--I weren't afraid." It was Ben Brokaw, not the Penniman family, who had come in out of the darkness and the rain and had watched over Ann while Baird had gone for the doctor. Between three and four o'clock, the sleeping collie had roused and gone out, and a few minutes later Baird had heard the approach of some one. When he sprang up, it was Ben who had confronted him, dripping wet, splashed with mud, small eyes peering and amazed. He had looked at Ann, prostrate, an instant of partial comprehension, then he had looked, as redly as any enraged animal, at Baird. Baird's explanation had been succinct, and, after a moment of grief-stricken understanding, Ben had shown even a shrewder grasp of the situation than Baird himself. Their consultation had been a hurried one, but when Baird galloped off through the rain he had been supported by the certainty that he had left both love and wisdom watching over Ann. There was a capable brain and a father's tender heart in Bear Brokaw's grotesque body--and a dog's faithfulness. It was after sunrise when Baird had brought the doctor to the Pennimans' door, and it was Sue Penniman, haggard but collected, not Ben, who had opened to them. "How is she?" had been Baird's instant question. "We think she's better. She's awake an' able to talk." Baird had held Sue's eye. "I've told the doctor Ben sent me for him. I couldn't tell him anything about the accident, only that she must have lain unconscious for a long time."