"Try, Ann—you're a woman, you ought to know."
Ann pondered, eyes still lifted to the stars. "Why—I guess it's wanting somebody for all your own—so badly you feel sure you can't live without them ... an' at the same time bein' such good friends with them that you care more about makin' them happy than being happy yourself."
Baird sat up abruptly. "Say that again, will you!"
Ann was startled into confusion. She looked wonderingly at his earnestness. "I don't believe I know—just what I said."
Baird repeated her definition alertly. "That was it, wasn't it?"
"Yes, I think so."
He sat a moment in thought. "That's about right," he said finally and decidedly, "and here I've been asking myself all sorts of fool questions for twenty-four solid hours."
He got up, stood a moment looking down at her, laughing softly, amusedly, and with an air of relief. "And you're not sure just what you did say! It was a bit of wisdom that slipped out of your subconsciousness.... Ann, you're a divinely dear thing! I'm grateful to you for existing, and I'll come another evening and tell you so."
Ann had recovered somewhat from surprise. This was a little more like the impetuous young man who had displeased her because she had liked his kiss. She shook hands with him distantly. "Father'll be here then, I hope."
Baird did not stop to parley. He rode off through the cedar avenue, turned his horse over to Sam, and went directly to his room. He threw aside his cap and, sitting down at his table, wrote to Judith.