Thurston was the sole and surly occupant of the sitting-room, where he had thrown himself at full length upon the sofa, to lie and yawn over the newspaper, which he vowed was as stale as last year's almanac.
Suddenly the front door was thrown open, and some one came, followed by the driving wind and snow, into the hall.
Thurston threw aside his paper, started up, and went out.
What was his surprise to see Cloudesley Mornington standing there, with a face so haggard, with eyes so wild and despairing, that, in alarm, he exclaimed:
"Good heaven, Cloudesley. What is the matter? Has anything happened at home?"
"Home! home! What home? I have no home upon this earth now, and never shall have!" exclaimed the poor youth, distractedly.
"My dear fellow, never speak so despondently. What is it now? a difficulty with the commodore?"
"God's judgment light upon him!" cried Cloudy, pushing past and hurrying up the stairs.
Thurston could not resume his former composure; something in Cloudy's face had left a feeling of uneasiness in his mind, and the oftener he recalled the expression the more troubled he became.
Until at length he could bear the anxiety no longer, and quietly leaving his room, he went up-stairs in search of the youth, and paused before the boy's door. By the clicking, metallic sounds within, he suspected him to be engaged in loading a pistol; for what purpose! Not an instant was to be risked in rapping or questioning.