Anthony looked at his uncle; it was in his mind to tell him what old Bulfinch had said. But he frowned, listened, and held his tongue; for what purpose would the telling serve? The vessel was thousands of miles away, and her prow would be turned homeward months before any word could reach Calcutta. Also, he knew Charles's bounding, sanguine spirit would at once cry the thing down. What? give credit to the maunderings of an old wretch like Bulfinch? If one had given ear, and he could fancy Charles saying this, to the ravings of every one stricken with the plague, God knows what would have become of matters! For they had been made mad by it; and the words of people in that condition should not be listened to, much less remembered! So Anthony held his peace--and waited. And now the ship was on the sea; the wonderous freight she carried was blowing nearer and nearer each day. The mind of Charles mounted into thin air; his spirits sang; his sayings were like things printed in old books. He laughed at the dull routine of the counting-room, and the bent shoulders and moody brows he saw there; and he put a good-humored curse on their doings and bade Anthony take his mind from worrying. "But," said the young man, "the claims made against us must be understood and met. They are real; they are heaping up; I can only hope they'll not fall in on us." "They are nothing. When the _Rufus Stevens_ comes into the river we'll be able to pay every claim made upon us, three times over." "But," said Anthony, "suppose she does not come?" Charles laughed at this. "Take your mind from provoking things," he insisted. "The world is full of such, but they were never made to think about. To-day is shabby and has nothing to give you; keep your thoughts on to-morrow." But the gaunt present had its spell on Anthony; and he could not take his mind from its grim approach. Later he spoke bitterly to Captain Weir. "There is enough come to us already to give us our deaths, once the weight of it falls together; and what _is_ to come, in his expectations, rests upon no better foundation than a tale told to children. But, nevertheless, the stroke of fortune you spoke of some time since seems the only thing that promises. If the house is to go on at all,--and I see the thing plainer each day,--my uncle's dream must come true." "His visionings of the past had a way of doing so," said Weir. "And, who knows? fortune may repeat itself. This I know: let the ship once come to port, and there will be enough money to enrich a prince."