Charles Stevens was told this by Frisbee himself, in the London Coffee-House. Anthony and Weir stood by--Anthony close to his uncle's elbow, for he feared the result. But Charles took it quietly. "How unfriendly the sea can be," he said. "It takes men's lives, and it takes their goods. Merchants and shipmen have suffered much from it." Frisbee stared, for the mild face was not that of a man who had lost a fortune; and Charles, his odd, impersonal look going about the public room, finally looked at Anthony, and he smiled as though gratified and surprised. "Ah, you're there, are you, Anthony?" said he. "I knew you would be." He put his arm across his nephew's shoulders. "You are a fine fellow." Anthony, a sudden shock at his heart, studied him with fearful eyes. "You see it, do you, Anthony?" said Charles, forlornly. "I knew you would at last. I should have told you when it first came. But I knew it would hurt you, and so I did not. It's a strange thing, is it not?" and he spoke very quietly, seemingly unaware of the ring of wondering faces about him. "It's a very strange thing. I've always thought it would be the dark I'd be afraid of. But it's the light." "Well," said Frisbee, startled. "A good day to you." And off he went; but Charles did not see him go. "Yes, it's the light," said he, nodding his head; "the long nights when I'd sit by the fire alone taught me that. I knew the darkness would come in the end, and I dreaded it. But I do not fear it now; one can sit undisturbed in the darkness; one can be quiet and peaceful. It's the light that brings unrest; it's the light that's always seeking to force its way through--a pale, bitter thing, and it always brings despair." "Come home," said Anthony; and to Weir he added, "See if Dr. King can be found; and, if so, fetch him at once." XXXII Ships had gone down a-plenty, and merchants had lost their goods, and drowned sailormen were numbered in hundreds. New tidings came in with each up-river sloop, and with each coach that crossed Jersey. But there was no news that traveled so fast as that of the sinking of the _Rufus Stevens_; for with her had gone down the house of that name, and there had perished the fine mind of its master. The exchanges roared with the intelligence; merchants wagged their heads and said they were sorry; agents said there had never been such a house and never would again; brokers regretfully put the concern out of their reckoning; bankers looked closely to their accounts and their securities. "A new ship," said a portly trader, from his favorite vantage-place behind a measure of ale. "A new ship, and gone down. It's a pity; it's a great pity. I looked to see that vessel do rare things in the trade."