"Tchorch," she murmured. The tears came to Mac's eyes, though he was hard to move and knew much of the bitterness of life. Wong's face was like that of some carved god who sits in the peace which is undisturbed by human prayer. And yet his hands were kind and his voice gentle. He murmured to himself in his own tongue. "Where is Tchorch?" asked Jenny. Now she saw Long Mac, whom Quin trusted. She appealed to the strong man. "He has not returned, ma'am," said Mac. She was no longer a little Siwash klootchman to him, but a bereaved woman. She looked at him long and steadfastly, and read his face. She was an Indian, after all, and could endure much. "My baby," she said. Sam had the boy. He gave it her. She murmured something to the fatherless, and lay back with him in her arms, She motioned to Mac and he came nearer. "Is Tchorch dead, Mister Maclan?" She could not speak his name. "I'm afraid so, ma'am," he answered. "Have they found him?" "Only the empty boat." Then no one spoke. She turned her head away, Outside the dawn came up and looked down on ashes. In the distance they heard Annawillee mourning. She sat in the road with dust upon her head, like an Indian widow. "I loved Tchorch," said Jenny. Then she rose in the bed and shrieked awfully. "I want Tchorch, I want Tchorch!" She was like steel under the powerful hands of the man who sat by her. "Oh, ma'am," said Mac. He said--"I've lost many." The tears ran down his face. Sam was like a reed shaken by the wind. Old Wong stood by the window and stared across the river, now open to the view, since the Mill was gone. "My poor girl!" She held his hand now as if it was life itself. And yet it might have been as if he were Death. "He was so good," she said. It wasn't what many would have said. But Mac understood: for he had lost many, and some said that he, too, was a hard man. She lay back again. Wong still stood by the window without moving. He, too, had lost one he loved; she, who was to have brought him children who would have honoured his ashes and his ancestral spirit, was dead in child-birth far away across the long, long paths of ocean. But now he looked across the river as the dawn shone upon its silver flood. Perhaps he looked at something. It seemed so to Sam, who rose and went to him. The old man spoke to him very quietly. They both went outside. "Tchorch is dead," said Jenny. But Tchorch was not dead. Something spoke of hope to Mac, something he didn't understand. Perhaps the wise old Wong could have explained it. He and Sam stood by the wharf and looked across the river to the further bank. His eyes were strong, they were the eyes of an old man who can see far. Now he saw something on the other bank, something moving in the half darkness of the dawn. As the day grew, even Sam saw that a man came stumbling along the bank of the shore. Who was it?