k in him to cry. He who risks his property in order to get possession
of another's should be philosopher enough to take with equanimity the
loss of his own.

"Don't be childish, Frank; don't be silly!" said his friends.

And, indeed, he had the strongest reason for suppressing his sobs.
Captain Edney was approaching. He was the last person to whom he would
have wished to betray his guilt and misfortune. He loved and respected
him; and we fear most the disapprobation of those we love and respect.
Moreover, through him the heart-breaking intelligence of her son's evil
courses might reach Mrs. Manly. But no doubt Frank's chief motive for
concealing the cause of his grief from Captain Edney was the suspicion he
still entertained, notwithstanding that officer's professed ignorance of
the entire matter, that he was in reality the secret donor of the watch.
So he choked back his sobs, and pretended to be assorting some pebbles,
which the boys used as counters, especially when certain officers were
passing, who would have reproved them if they had seen money on the
board. And Captain Edney, whether he suspected any thing wrong, or not,
walked on; and that restraint upon Frank's feelings was removed.

But having once controlled the outburst, he did not suffer them to get
the better of him again. With a look of silent and sullen despair, he got
up, and went to his bunk, and threw himself upon it, and, turning his
face to the wall, refused to be comforted.

It was the wooden wall of the ship's timbers--the same he had looked at
in sickness, in storms at sea, by day, and at night by the dim light of
the swinging ship's lanterns; and when he lay calmly at rest, in the palm
of God, amid the convulsions and dangers of the deep, and when, in the
tediousness of long, dull days of waiting, he had lain there, and solaced
himself with sweet thoughts of home.

But never had the ribbed ship's side appeared to him as now. And yet it
was the same; but he was not the same. He was no longer the bright,
hopeful, happy boy as before, but miserable, guilty, broken-hearted. And
as we are, so is the world to us; the most familiar objects changing
their aspect with every change in the soul. Does the sunshine, which was
bright yesterday, look cold to-day? and is the sweet singing of birds
suddenly become as a mockery to the ear? and the faces of friends, late
so pleasant to see, have they grown strange and reproachful? and is life,
before so full o