But the days of the early winter dragged. There was none of the stir of vessels arriving and departing; none of the receiving of stores of new merchandise, none of the sudden bustlings and gossip of trade, and of money and exchange, that quickened things when the river was open. And, as each slow day went by, Anthony was weighted more and more with the conviction that no arresting sign would show itself in the midst of this commercial usualness; no sign _could_ show itself. He watched minutely; he carefully balanced what he saw against the indefinite things he suspected. But the result was emptiness. His mind met with polished perfection; his thoughts seemed to slip futilely about among the smooth ways of the business. Not one thing threw even the shadow of a promise across his path. One early morning, as he shook the snow from his cloak and stamped it from his boots before the counting-room fire, Tom Horn was arranging his books upon the desk; and Anthony said, smilingly: "You'll be a very wise man one day, Tom. All this poring over books should lead to something." "The books of the world, hold the world's knowledge," said Tom Horn. "And too few people give attention to them." "That's true," said Anthony, "most of us do not employ ourselves with as many of them as we should." "Sometimes," said the clerk, "men try to draw their knowledge from the things in which they find themselves. In that way they limit their possibilities; for there are always other and wider things that might serve them better. One man can only hope to gain a little from the world as it turns, and that little is not of much service. But the accumulated findings of many men are ready written down. If you desire to make plain what's keenest in your mind, go to books, study them diligently, study many of them; it will cost you but the price of so much lamp-oil, or so many candles, and the use of evening hours that you'd otherwise throw away." Anthony smiled. "That's excellent advice, Tom," he said. "And I've no doubt I'd do well to follow it." The nights were long and cold and dark that winter; Anthony had no desire for social diversions, and he resisted the calls made upon him by his uncle, by Dr. King, by Whitaker; he desired to hold his mind to one thing, and every hour was given to its solution.