mething, my boy, is always very kind to us sea-going people, and it's
called Hope. And somehow at such times as this it makes women think
that matters can't be so bad as they have been described, or that they
can't be true. Now I'd be ready to say that in spite of the bad news
that's come to your mother about you, she won't believe it's true, and
that she's waiting patiently for the better news that will some time
come, and that it will be many, many months, perhaps a year, before she
will really believe that you are dead."

"Oh, but it's too horrible!" cried the boy wildly.

"No, no, no. Come! Pluck up your spirits and make the best of it.
Look here, boy. You must bear it for the sake of the greater pleasure,
the joy that will come when she finds that she was right in her belief,
and in the surprise to all your friends when they see you come back
alive and kicking, and all the better for your voyage. I say, look at
the bright side of things, and think how much better it has all been
than if you had been knocked overboard to go down in the darkness at a
time when it was every one for himself, and no one had a thought for
you."

Fitz turned away his head so that neither father nor son could see the
workings of his face.

"There, my lad," said the skipper, rising, "I was obliged to speak out
plainly. I have hurt you, I know, but it has only been like the
surgeon, to do you good. I am wanted on deck now, so take my advice;
bear it like a man. Here, Poole, I want you for half-an-hour or so, and
I dare say Mr Burnett would like to have a bit of a think to himself."

He gave the boy a warm pressure of his hand, and then strode out of the
cabin, his example being followed the next moment by Poole, whose action
was almost the same as his father's, the exception being that he quickly
caught hold of the middy's hand and held it for a moment before he
hurried out.

Then and then only did Fitz's face go down upon his hands, while a low
groan of misery escaped his lips.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

MAKING FRIENDS.

"Well, what is it?" said the skipper gruffly, as his son followed him on
deck and touched him on the arm.

"Don't you think it possible, father, that--"

"That I could turn aside from what I have got to do, boy? No, I don't."

"But he's ill and weak, father."

"Of course he is, and he's getting better as fast as he can. What's
more, he's a boy--in the depth of despair now, and in half-an-hour's
time h