“What's the matter, Frank?” asked Hamilton.
“Nothing,” replied Frank, raising his head quickly, and endeavoring, rather unsuccessfully, to smile, amid something that looked very much like tears; at least, if we must not be allowed to hint at such appearances, there was certainly much agitation in his countenance—so unusual a phenomenon, that a dead silence followed the ghastly effort.
“Nonsense,” said Hamilton, kindly; “you won't persuade me that nothing is the matter, Frank.”
“Nothing particular,” said Frank, fidgeting with a penny that lay on the mantelpiece; “only the doctor has been giving me a lecture for the good of my morals, that's all.”
“A lecture?” repeated Norman.
“What's been the matter, Frank?” said Reginald.
“A small moral discourse upon the sin and danger of practical jokes,” said Frank, swallowing down such an evident degree of emotion as convinced his auditors that the discourse had been no ordinary one. “His hints were rather peculiar, Hamilton—too decided for so quick-sighted a youth as myself. I don't wonder he has such a horror of a joke; I should think the dear man never was guilty of such a crime in his life himself; or he has a strong imagination; or, perhaps, a bad opinion of your humble servant—all the same—the cause doesn't much signify; the effect's what one looks at.”
“Something dreadfully mysterious,” said Reginald.
Hamilton was silent. He watched anxiously Frank's varying countenance, the twitching of which, as well as the thick, quick tone in which he spoke, betrayed great excitement.
“The fact is, I suppose, the doctor has reasons for his suspicions,” continued Frank, still more quickly, while his face grew redder, and his eyelids twinkled painfully, and the penny was fairly spun into the fender.