In that final instant the fog, like a faint-hearted conspirator who gives up and flees before his companions, began to retreat up the slope toward the distant mountain. But the hill wind remained stubborn. So, as MacKenzie touched the captain on the shoulder, pointing over there straight to their left, they gazed upon the ragged rocks from which her pilot had preserved the ship, and they saw the pallid jets of steam emanating from the siren behind the white lighthouse; but as yet they could hear nothing of the warning which the siren bellowed. On her beam now; and now it receded to her quarter; and now the _Empress_ had passed the place into the channel. The harbor showed clear before her bows; the sunlight was flecking the waters. MacKenzie moved his hand upon the lever of the telegraph, and the great liner ceased that creeping to resume her proud pace toward the wharves. * * * * * “It was that wind in the hills,” MacKenzie told the secretary in the office of the Bar Pilots’ Association, while he was leaving the order for fees which the captain had signed. “Come on thick for a few minutes, John; and just as I got her under Lime Point that wind played a dirty trick on me. Lime Point siren kept carrying off toward the mountain somewheres, and Fort Point came on so loud you couldn’t hear another thing. For a minute they had me pretty near to guessing. I’d of been in trouble--if I hadn’t been sure o’ my bearings.” Which was all the comment that he made, for he was in a hurry to get home for that birthday festival. At home, he rested as a good workman should rest. He shook off that sea harshness of his; his voice was gentle as he played with his grandchildren. He dispensed with that quarter-deck authoritativeness; he became the slave of the whole shrieking brood and did their smallest bidding. As if it were wearisome now, he forsook that calmness which he had worn while he was dealing with the hostile elements; he fairly trembled with nervousness when he stole into the sitting room to place the two dolls on the center table, so fearful was he lest one of the twins would catch him at it. But there was a thing which he could not shake off, a trait which had fastened itself too firmly during his hours of facing the unexpected. One of his daughters mentioned it to her mother at the close of the evening, after the children had been put to bed, and while the rest of them were talking in front of the fire. MacKenzie was arguing with his two sons-in-law. “Don’t you go quoting government statistics at me,” he was saying implacably; “I don’t care what they say; I’m right!” His daughter’s voice was full of amused tolerance as she spoke to her mother: “He is _so_ sure!” And if the elements were--as men of old believed them--gifted with the power of speech, there is no doubt that on their next meeting at the inner portal of the Golden Gate the hill wind and the fog would have echoed that sentiment.