"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?