UNDER its white garment, the Island lay muffled and still. Tiny specks moved about on it—under some great canopy of space—they emerged and drifted and ran—calling into the fog. Out at sea the bell sounded its note, swinging to and fro with a deep, sharp clang. Men on the shore listened to it and peered into the fog.... The boats had come creeping in, one by one—some of them loaded to the rail—some grumbling at fog, and riding high. Only two were out now, and the day had come on to dusk—the dusk of the fog and of the night sliding silently in together.

The whole Island had gathered on the beach, looking into the fog—peering for glimpses of water, and the darker shapes of the boats out there.... George Manning had not come in—and about noon Uncle William had lifted anchor and drifted out, looking for absent boats—“Sometimes I kind o’ sense where they be without seein’ ’em,” he had said.... The boats were all in now, swinging at their moorings under the soft dusk—all but Manning’s and Uncle William. The last boats in had had glimpses of the Jennie and had heard Uncle William’s voice booming through the fog. “He was off the Point, last I heard,” said a voice on the beach.... “He was drifting along, sort o’ looking out—told us how things was ahead—then the fog drove in and shut him off—then we heard him quite a spell after we couldn’t see him”... the voice ran along the beach and ceased.

Someone had lighted a bonfire, and the children went fitfully back and forth in the glow.... The night was coming down.... “I don’t mind a blow,” said a complaining voice, “I don’t care how hard a gale it blows, but I can’t, stan’ fog.... I wish they was in.”

Up in the little house on the cliff, the ship’s lantern was lighted—and a dull eye glowed at the night.... In the room, the girl moved with light feet, stopping now and then and bending her head for steps on the path or for some sound of the sea. She crossed once to the window and put her hands about her face and looked out into the grayness. She drew back with a little quick breath, and went again to her work.

On the beach, men strained their ears to listen... oar-locks creaked faintly, marking the fog. The beach listened and drew to its edge.... “That’s William!”

“Uncle William’s come!”—The children rushed down the beach and stood alert at the fog.

The oar-locks creaked leisurely in and the big form grew to them—over the dory’s bow. Hands reached out and drew it up on the sand as the wave receded. Uncle William stepped out, without hurry—“No, I didn’t find him—He must ’a’ gone out considabul far—put in-shore, like enough.” He drew a hand down his length of face and flicked the moisture from it. “Putty thick,” he said cheerfully.

The children drifted off, with running shouts. Someone threw fresh staves on the fire and the flames leaped up, playing against the great curtain of fog and showing strange shapes. The faces took on mystery, and moved in the leaping light—as if they were all a big play. The calling tones deepened to the fog and the even-clanging bell rang its note—and stopped—and rang again.

Men went home to eat, and came back to the beach, and Uncle William climbed to the house on the cliff. “It’s been a putty good day,” he said placidly. “They’ve had quite a run o’ luck—forty-fifty barrel, all told, I should think.”

“Are they all in?” said the girl. She had placed the plate of fried fish before him, and stood beside him, waiting—a wistful look in her face.

“Where’s Benjy?” asked Uncle William, helping himself to fish with leisurely hand.

“Down to the beach—hours ago,” said the girl.

“Um-m—I didn’t see him.... Yes, they’re all in now—except George. He ’ll be along pretty quick, I guess.” He chewed with easy relish, reaching down a hand to Juno as she rubbed alongside. “She had her supper?” he asked.

“No, sir—I was waiting for you—I guess I kind of forgot her, too,” said the girl with a little laugh. “Here, Juno—!” Juno walked across with stately mien to the plate of scraps.

The girl lifted a sober face. “You going back down to the beach, Uncle William!”

“Well—mebbe I’ll go down a little while, byme-by. I didn’t leave the Jennie all snug—You want some wood!” He peered into the box.

“I brought some in—while I was waiting.”

“You hadn’t ought to ’a’ done that, Celia—”

“I hadn’t anything else to do,” said the girl, “and I was tired—waiting.” She bent over the sink, scrubbing vigorously at the kettle.

Uncle William glanced at her. “If I was you, I wouldn’t do any more tonight, Celia. I gen’ally chucked ’em under the sink—nights like this—” His gaze sought the window. “You ought to be getting back to Andy’s pretty quick—’fore it gets any darker. The fog’s coming in thick.”

“I’m going—by and by. You through your supper?” She glanced at his plate.

“Yes, I’m through.” He looked at the plate a little guiltily. “It was cooked nice,” he said.

She smiled at him. “You didn’t eat much.” She carried the plate to the sink.

Uncle William took up his hat. “I’ll be going down, I guess.” He went to the door—her glance followed him—

“Uncle William—?”

“Yes, Celia.”

She was looking down at her hands.

Uncle William came back. He reached out a hand and rested it on her shoulder. “There ain’t any danger ’t the Lord can’t take care of, Celia,” he said smiling. “I s’pose if I was takin’ care of him, I’d be worried—a night like this.... But, you see, the Lord’s got him.”

“Yes, sir,” said Celia.

“You go right home—and you go to sleep,” said Uncle William.

“I’d rather stay here,” said the girl quickly, “this is home.”

“Why, so ’tis,” said Uncle William, “—and the’ ain’t any reason why you can’t stay as well as not. You just lie down on the lounge here.... Juno’s good comp’ny and there’s the fire, and lights.... You won’t get lonesome.” He patted the shoulder and was gone.

The girl finished the dishes and sat down in the big chair by the stove. Juno came and jumped on her lap, and the girl gathered her up, hiding her face in the thick fur.... Out in the harbor she could hear the stroke of the fog-bell, and the voices from the beach, muffled and vague. Something was in the air—her fingers tingled with it—the electricity in Juno’s thick fur—or was it something out there with the voices? She put down the cat and sat erect, gazing before her. Then she got up and took a little shawl from its nail and flitted from the room... down the steep path, stumbling and catching her breath—hurrying on, her face toward the sea and the little shawl gathered closer about her.

A great form loomed from the mist and came close to her—“That you, Celia?” It was Uncle William’s voice, with a deep note in it, and she turned to him, catching at something in her throat, “I couldn’t stay up to the house—” It was a breathless cry—

“There—there—You come right here.” He gathered her hand, laying it on his arm and patting it a little. “Now we ’ll run along,” he said, “and see what’s doing.”

Down the beach they could hear the voices talking, calling—dying away. The fire had flared up, and the faces danced in and out.... “I kind o’ sense suthin’ coming,” said Uncle William.

There was a long, gruff sound—a big whistle, like low thunder—and silence... then the whistle—sharper, and seeking—and the muffled chugging of big screws.... The faces, toward the sea, waited—intent. “She’s off her course—“... The vague sounds came in nearer—and sheered away.... Through the veiling fog they could see red lights—and green—of the steamer. Then the whistle broke shrilly and moved off... the churring waves followed her.... On the beach they had thrown fresh brush on the fire, great armfuls that flared high—and the sound of the steamer dwindled through the mist.

“Looks as if the moon might break through,” said Uncle William. The eyes looked up to a luminous spot in the fog—and came back to the beach.... “He ’d ’a’ been in hours ago,” said Andy, “—if he was coming—”

“Put in-shore—like enough,” responded Uncle William.

The men gathered about the fire, squatting on the sand or sitting on boxes and kegs.... The fire was dying down now, but no one rose to throw on fuel.... The girl wandered to the water’s edge and stood listening. The little waves touched her feet, but she did not draw back... Glances, by the fire, sought her and looked away. A dense stillness had settled on them—only the little moving waves broke it, as they ran up and ran back.... A muffled creak out of the dark, like the whisper of a sail turning, half-asleep—Then the rattle of cords, and a voice that laughed—“A-hoy!” The mist was still again, and then the call, coming through its blankness, “A-hoy! Ship ahoy!”

The mist parted and the boat came gliding through—her lights little points in the night—Slowly the mists lifted—rolling up, like great curtains into the darker night. A soft light that was not of moon or stars grew about them—The fire had died out and only the gentle light shone everywhere and through it the dark boat, seeming motionless, crept softly in.