"Don't you worry about submarines, you matter-of-fact old sea-urchin, you! Look there, Miss Kirkland, at the big fog-bank lurking outside. It'll be in on us in no time. I'll have to start up the bell."
As they turned to go down, Joan looked back and shivered a little as she gazed at the steadily creeping line of gray.
The fog, which had been rolling in thickly during lunch-time, now folded the lighthouse with a cold silent whiteness. It seemed like an irresistible invading force, creeping stealthily toward the land. The fog-bell had long since begun to toll its warning, presaging the relentless advance. The sound was solemn and very lonely, grand even in its monotony; it pervaded everything with a mellow reverberation. Joan marveled to find how soon she became used to the ever-repeated note.
Somewhere a tug bellowed hoarsely. Garth left the window where he had been standing.
"Oh, come out!" he cried. "Out into it, Joan!"
"But it's so clammy," she objected.
"It won't hurt you; nothing hurts you out
