One
instant the longing for Dan was all that Joan could think of; the next she
had no room for anything more than the burned nose of the puppy--if there
were other phases to this matter--such as Buck Daniels had pointed out--fear
that in some future crisis the blood of the father might show in the child,
Kate pushed such thoughts away. She was too full of the present happiness.
Now, while she sat there in the firelight, she sang softly into the dreams
of Joan, and watched the smile of sleep grow and wane faintly on the lips
of the child as the rhythm of her singing lifted and fell. One half of her
mind was empty, that part where Dan should have been, and a dozen times she
checked an impulse to turn to him in the place where he should be sitting
and invite him with a smile to share her happiness. When her eyes moved
they only fell on the gaunt, intent face of Buck or the leonine head of
Haines. Whistling Dan was gone and if he ever came again her fear of him,
her fear for Joan, would be greater than her love. Yet Dan being gone so
finally, she knew that she would never be truly happy again.
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