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.