Half a mile farther on the slow, huge, groundswells began to come in; a lighthouse was passed.  Full in view, on ahead, stretched the open, empty waste of ocean.  Another steamer turned back, then another, then another, then the last of the newspaper tugs.  The fleet, reduced now to half a dozen craft, ploughed on through and over the groundswells, the ship they were escorting leading the way, her ragged little ensign straining stiff in the ocean wind.  At the entrance of the bay, where the enclosing shores drew together and trailed off to surf-beaten sand-spits, three more of the escort halted, and, unwilling to face the tumbling expanse of the ocean, bleak and gray, turned homeward.  Then just beyond the bar two more of the remaining boats fell off and headed Cityward; a third immediately did likewise.  The outbound ship was left with only one companion.

But that one, a sturdy little sea-going tug, held close, close to the flank of the departing vessel, keeping even pace with her and lying alongside as nearly as she dared, for the fog had begun to thicken, and distant objects were shut from sight by occasional drifting patches.

On board the tug there was but one passenger—­a woman.  She stood upon the forward deck, holding to a stanchion with one strong, white hand, the strands of her bronze-red hair whipping across her face, the salt spray damp upon her cheeks.  She was dressed in a long, brown ulster, its cape flying from her shoulders as the wind lifted it.  Small as was the outgoing ship, the tug was still smaller, and its single passenger had to raise her eyes above her to see the figure of a man upon the bridge of the ship, a tall, heavily built figure, buttoned from heel to chin in a greatcoat, who stood there gripping the rail of the bridge with one hand, and from time to time giving an order to his sailing-master, who stood in the centre of the bridge before the compass and electric indicator.

Between the man upon the bridge and the woman on the forward deck of the tug there was from time to time a little conversation.  They called to one another above the throbbing of the engines and the wash of the sea alongside, and in the sound of their voices there was a note of attempted cheerfulness.  Practically they were alone, with the exception of the sailing-master on the bridge.  The crew of the ship were nowhere in sight.  On the tug no one but the woman was to be seen.  All around them stretched the fog-ridden sea.

Then at last, in answer to a question from the man on the bridge, the woman said: 

“Yes—­I think I had better.”

An order was given.  The tug’s bell rang in her engine-room, and the engine slowed and stopped.  For some time the tug continued her headway, ranging alongside the ship as before.  Then she began to fall behind, at first slowly, then with increasing swiftness.  The outbound ship continued on her way, and between the two the water widened and widened.  But the fog was thick; in another moment the two would be shut out from each other’s sight.  The moment of separation was come.