He tried not to think of her; but when she gained a way into his mind his reflections always had one ending. Magruder! Had there ever been a more vicious and sordid taking off? Was there ever a more bloody or evil deed? The stains of it were deep on Tarrant and the big young man. And the girl? Was she not their friend? Had she not been in Water Street about the time the thing was done? Had not a rumor tied a woman to the crime? Every pulse in his body sent protests to his mind; but his mind was fixed, and he'd rise up and tramp the floor. One day Charles Stevens did not appear at the counting-room, being ill of a congestion. And in the evening Anthony took him some papers which it was thought necessary that he see, and found him wrapped comfortably in a rug before a fire in the library, reading a play-book. It was then that the words of Tom Horn about books came back to Anthony; and after he had discussed the matter of the papers with his uncle he approached one of the crowded bookcases. "Sometimes I feel the need of a little variety in my thinking," he said. "Would you mind if I took one or two of these away with me?" Charles, with the play-book lying upon his snugly wrapped knees, looked at him and smiled. "Your grandfather never concerned himself with books," said he; "and you are such a replica of him that I took it for granted that your taste must be the same." Anthony had opened the case and was rummaging among its contents, and Charles went on. "Those rakehells of the Restoration will amuse you, if your taste runs to their kind," and he riffled the leaves of the play-book with kindly fingers. "You'll find them there in the second shelf, next the fireplace. Or, if you'd rather take a step back, the Elizabethans are just below, and they are a crew that'll shake your soul, or your ribs, just as you'd have them. Those Italian tale-tellers were shrewd workmen,--there in the pigskin, right under your hand,--but if you think you'd care for romance nearer to this present day there is Defoe's narrative of the shipwrecked sailor, and also Fielding's chronicle of life as he's seen it in his own England." There was an array of pudgy little books, with stout leather backs and stained edges, upon a shelf quite low in the case. Anthony stooped, took one out, and opened it. The eyes of Charles sparkled. "Voyages!" said he. "That one, I'll wager, is Bartholomew Diaz; how often I've sailed with him as a boy through the pages of that book, to the mouth of the Great Fish River. And there is fine old Vasco da Gama! Many a summer afternoon he and I have doubled the cape, put the complaining pilots in irons, and thrown their quadrants into the sea. And Columbus, and Cabot, and the Merchant Adventurers' Company. There's a rank and file for you, if you want actual deeds and fine accomplishment; Hawkins, Drake, Davis, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, and that never-beaten Yorkshireman, Martin Frobisher--" "What are these?" asked Anthony.