There was something in her manner that recalled fleeting conjectures Baird had had since seeing her with Edward that afternoon. Judith had said, "I realize that Edward will probably marry--" It would be odd if Edward was really thinking seriously of Ann--a Penniman and all the rest of it. There'd be a stir on the Ridge, and a perfect storm in the clan. Silly, caste-bound idiots! Ann was exquisite enough for any sphere. She had been superb while she handled that horse--plenty of spirit and go. And if Edward loved her, he'd marry her, in spite of them all; Edward was a pretty fine sort.... But how about Garvin?... Some one had talked love to Ann, it showed in her face and in her voice--that was what made her seem so changed. Was it Edward or Garvin?... She certainly had drawing power, the thing that's entirely aside from physical beauty; ugly women often had it. Baird turned from his thoughts. "This is a different sort of place from where I grew up--just about as different as you can imagine," and he slipped into reminiscences of Chicago and of his father, and, when Ann showed her interest, he endeavored to elucidate the intricacies of ward politics. It seemed to Ann that he had grown up with plenty of wickedness about him, drinking and stealing and such things; among men who cared nothing about any one or anything, only to make money. It was a wonder that he was as nice as he was, and he must be nice, in spite of the way he had once behaved to her, or Edward and Garvin would not be so devoted to him. Ann was certain that Judith Westmore could be cruel, very beautiful and charming, but cruelly proud. Baird was evidently courting her, and she was probably not very nice to him. He certainly did not seem as light-hearted as he once did. And neither was she--she was feeling heavy-hearted enough. Ann was always quick with sympathy. She had been poignantly reminiscent all day, and she, in her turn, told Baird a little about her own childhood, speaking so softly that her slurred syllables were music. She told him nothing intimate, yet it was a revelation of loneliness; the fields and the woods and Ben had been her companions. Baird was impressed, as Edward had been, by a child life lived apart from its family. "You hadn't a mother, then, Ann?" Baird had responded to the change in her manner; he forgot to say, "Miss Ann." "My mother died when I was born," Ann said with a quiver of feeling. "I reckon if I'd had her, everything would have been all different."