had one shadow of substantial sorrow, Miss Catherine. Suppose, for a minute, that master and I were dead, and you were by yourself in the world—how would you feel, then? Compare the present occasion with such an affliction as that, and be thankful for the friends you have, instead of coveting more."
"I'm not crying for myself, Ellen," she answered, "it's for him—He expected to see me again, to-morrow, and there, he'll be so disappointed—and he'll wait for me, and I shan't come!"
"Nonsense!" said I, "do you imagine he has thought as much of you, as you have of him? Hasn't he Hareton, for a companion? Not one in a hundred would weep at losing a relation they had just seen twice, for two afternoons—Linton will conjecture how it is, and trouble himself no further about you."
"But may I not write a note to tell him why I cannot come?" she asked rising to her feet. "And just send those books, I promised
