The puppy would have escaped if it could, for it had in mind the dark,
warm, familiar corner in Li's kitchen where no harm ever came near, but the
agile hands of Joan caught him; he was swept into her arms. That little
wail of helpless pain, the soft fluff of fur against her cheek, wiped all
other things from Joan's mind. Out the window and across the gloomy hills
she had been staring at the picture of the cave, and bright-eyed Satan, and
the shadowy form of Bart, and the swift, gentle hand of Daddy Dan; but the
cry of the puppy blotted the picture out. She was no longer lonely, having
this small, soft body to protect. There sat her mother, leaning a little
toward her with a glance at once misted and bright, and she forgot forthwith
all the agency of Kate in carrying her away from that cave of delight.
"Look, munner! He's burned his nose!"
The puppy was licking the injured nose industriously and whimpering the
while. And Joan heard no answer from her mother except an inarticulate
little sound somewhere deep in Kate's throat. Over her child mind, vaguely,
like all baby memories, moved a recollection of the same sound, coming
deeply from the throat of the mother and marvelously soothing, reassuring.
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