Then, still holding the babiche thong, she drew Kazan up close to her, so that he lay with his weight against her.
The sun fell warmly on Kazan's back as they shoved off, and he closed his eyes, and rested his head on Joan's lap.

Her hand fell softly on his shoulder.

He heard again that sound which the man could not hear, the broken sob in her throat, as the canoe moved slowly down to the wooded point.
Joan waved her hand back at the cabin, just disappearing behind the trees.
"Good-by!" she cried sadly.

"Good-by--" And then she buried her face close down to Kazan and the baby, and sobbed.
The man stopped paddling.
"You're not sorry--Joan ?" he asked.
They were drifting past the point now, and the scent of Gray Wolf came to Kazan's nostrils, rousing him, and bringing a low whine from his throat.
"You're not sorry--we're going ?" Joan shook her head.
"No," she replied.

"Only I've--always lived here--in the forests--and they're--home!" The point with its white finger of sand, was behind them now.