"For a month—near two months, we have been very near; and I have been in sad pain, and danger, and misery, Cary."
"I could not come."
"Couldn't you? But the Rectory and Briarmains are very near: not two miles apart."
There was pain—there was pleasure in the girl's face as she listened to these implied reproaches: it was sweet—it was bitter to defend herself.
"When I say I could not come, I mean I could not see you; for I came with mama the very day we heard what had happened. Mr. MacTurk then told us it was impossible to admit any stranger."
"But afterwards—every fine afternoon these many weeks past I have waited and listened. Something here, Cary (laying his hand on his breast), told me it was impossible but that you should think of me. Not that I merit thought; but we are old acquaintance: we are cousins."
"I came again, Robert: mama and I came again."
"Did you? Come, that is worth hearing: since you came again, we will sit down and talk about it."
They sat down. Caroline drew her chair up to his. The air was now dark with snow: an Iceland blast was driving it wildly. This pair neither heard the long "wuthering" rush, nor saw the white burden it drifted: each seemed conscious but of one thing—the presence of the other.
"So mama and you came again?"
"And Mrs. Yorke did treat us strangely. We asked to see you. 'No,' said she; 'not in my house.
