the preparations for the funeral. Mr. Kenneth came to announce the event to my master.
"Well, Nelly;" said he, riding into the yard, one morning, too early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news.
"It's yours, and my turn to go into mourning at present. Who's given us the slip, now do you think?"
"Who?" I asked in a flurry.
"Why, guess!" he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a hook by the door. "And nip up the corner of your apron; I'm certain you'll need it."
"Not Mr. Heathcliff, surely? I exclaimed."
"What! would you have tears for him?" said the doctor. No, Heathcliff's a tough young fellow; he looks blooming to-day—I've just seen him. He's rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half.
"Who is it, then Mr. Kenneth?" I repeated impatiently.
"Hindley Earnshaw! Your old friend Hind-
