They roll across the North Sea from their home in the marshes of Holland on the face of the waters, and the mariner, groping his way with dripping eyelashes and a rosy face through them, can look up and see the blue sky through the rifts overhead.

When the fog-bank touches land it rises, slowly lifted by the warm breath of the field.
On the coast-line it lies low; a mile inland it begins to break into rifts, so that any one working his way down one of the tidal rivers, sails in the counting of twenty seconds from sunshine into a pearly shadow.

Five miles inland there is a transparent veil across the blue sky slowly sweeping toward the west, and rising all the while, until those who dwell on the higher lands of Essex and Suffolk perceive nothing but a few fleecy clouds high in the heavens.
The lugger was hardly moving, for the tide had only turned half an hour ago.
"Provided," the Captain had muttered within the folds of his woollen scarf rolled round and round his neck until it looked like a dusky life-belt--"provided that they are ringing their bell on the Shipwash, we shall find our way into the open.

Always sea-sick, this traveller, always seasick!" And he turned with a kindly laugh to Loo Barebone, who was lying on a heap of old sails by the stern rail, concealing as well as he could the pangs of a consuming hunger.
"One sees that you will never be a sailor," added the man from Fecamp, with that rough humour which sailors use.
"Perhaps I do not want to be one," replied Barebone, with a ready gaiety which had already made him several friends on this tarry vessel, although the voyage had lasted but four days.
"Listen," interrupted the Captain, holding up a mittened hand.

"Listen! I hear a bell, or else it is my conscience." Barebone had heard it for some time.