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<- Previous | Table of Contents | Next -> Digital Library- Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

known from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from
his increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance.

She went sadly on: there was no running or bounding now,
though the chill wind might well have tempted her to a race. And
often, from the side of my eye, I could detect her raising a hand,
and brushing something off her cheek.

I gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one
side of the road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted
oaks, with their roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil
was too loose for the latter, and strong winds had blown some
nearly horizontal. In summer, Miss Catherine delighted to climb
along these trunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet
above the ground; and I, pleased with her agility and her light,
childish heart, still considered it proper to scold every time I
caught her at such an elevation, but so that she knew there was no
necessity for descending. From dinner to tea she would lie in her
breeze-rocked cradle, doing nothing except singing old songs--my
nursery lore--to herself, or watching the birds, joint tenants, feed
and entice their young ones to fly; or nestling with closed lids, half
thinking, half dreaming, happier than words can express.

“Look, Miss!” I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of
one twisted tree. “Winter is not here yet. There’s a little flower up
yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded
those turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and
pluck it to show to Papa?”

Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its
earthly shelter, and replied, at length:

“No, I’ll not touch it; but it looks melancholy, does it not,

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