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Wrapped in his cloak, with his hat drawn down over his brows, Fred paced up and down the deck in no very amiable frame of mind. It was a dense, gloomy night. The storm-clouds were drifting, dark and threatening, over the leaden sky; a chill, raw wind was blowing, piercingly cold-sighing, dirge-like, through the rigging, while the creaking of the cordage seemed to chant back a sort of dismal refrain; a thick rain was falling, making everything wet and uncomfortable. It was indeed suicidal weather, but perfectly congenial to the thoughts passing through the mind of the tall, cloaked figure pacing so restlessly to and fro.

At times, sounds of song and peals of laughter would come floating up from the cabin, where old Dr. Kirk, Captain Harden, Gus, and Miss Percival were assembled. These sounds were to Fred's feelings like "vinegar upon nitre;" and his lip curled scornfully and bitterly whenever he passed. Suddenly the mention of his own name arrested his steps. Some secret power held him, as it were, forcibly to the spot, to listen.