Jenny sat upon a rock, clad only in her nightgown, with the quilt thrown about her shoulders. Her home was burning and all their beautiful things were destroyed. She could not cry, but her heart wept, and the child was her only comfort. She knew well enough that this was Pete's work, she felt it in her heart. And a crowd gathered. There were many from the City: those whose work it is to put out fires, and some of the police. There was a fat saloon-keeper whom she knew by sight and the old boss of the Farmers' Home. With them were many Siwashes from Shack-Town: among them the wedger-off who had replaced Pete. She saw old Papp, the German from "California," and Chihuahua, with his beady eyes flashing, and his teeth all a-grin. With him came his klootchman, Annawillee, the one who always sang the song of the mournful one, also called Annawillee. Then there were Chinamen in wide flapping pyjamas, old Wong, the wise man, and Fan-tan and Sam Lung, and Quong. They made a circle about her and the fire, and chattered in Chinese, in Chinook, in Spanish, for now Spanish Joe, the handsome man, came up and palavered with Chihuahua. She felt their eyes upon her. She had "shem" that they should see her, for she was not Quin's wife, and his child cried upon her knees. She hid her bare feet under the nightgown. Sam stood by her. She saw Quin speak to the police, to the firemen. Any help was vain. Then Long Mac ran up the hill, as light as a wapiti on his feet. He said but a word and ran back. But it was a wise word, though too late. "Send someone down to the Mill, Quin. If this is Pete, it won't satisfy him. I'll get a boat and go on the River." "Do," said Quin. "I'll see this through and be with you in a minute." But the swift minutes passed, and before they gave up all hope (though Quin never had hope) and before he could say what should be done with Jenny, someone cried out suddenly-- "The Mill, the Mill!" As if they had been turned on their heels by some strange machinery the big crowd turned and saw a running light in the Mill. It was as if the crowd of workers danced with lamps: as if there were some Chinese Feast of Lanterns in its dark floors. Then the flickering, dancing lights coalesced and they saw flames flow out, and flow down and climb up. "The Mill!" said Quin. Bad enough to lose his house, his home, which now he loved, but to lose the Mill was a thousand times worse. The house was but a new thing and the Mill was old. Thousands of days he had watched the work and heard its song: not a board of it, not a rafter, not a stud or beam or scantling or shingle that wasn't his delight. It was part of himself, the thing wherewith he worked, the live muscles with which he toiled: his spirit extended to it: he ran it with his steam, with his belts, with his mind, his energy. "Oh, my Mill!"