"
CHAPTER XIV.
CLOUDY.
It was Christmas Eve and a fierce snow-storm was raging.
Old Mr. Willcoxen sat half doubled up in his leather-covered elbow
chair, in the chimney corner of his bedroom, occupied with smoking his
clay pipe, and thinking about his money bags.
Fanny was in the cold, bleak upper rooms of the house, looking out of
the windows upon the wide desolation of winter, the waste of snow, the
bare forest, the cold, dark waters of the bay--listening to the driving
tempest, and singing, full of glee as she always was when the elements
were in an uproar.
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.
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