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.

Her spring of life was ended, but even now she was grateful for the full richness of those six years with Dan; and if she turned from him now it was only because a mighty instinct commanded her and a voice without words drove her--Joan must go on to a normal, womanly happiness.