"It's your father's, isn't it?" said she, turning to Hareton.
"Nay," he replied, looking down, and blushing bashfully.
He could not stand a steady gaze from her eyes, though they were just his own.
"Whose then—your master's?" she asked.
He coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, and turned away.
"Who is his master?" continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me. "He talked about 'our house,' and 'our folk.' I thought he had been the owner's son. And he never said, Miss; he should have done, shouldn't he, if he's a servant?"
Hareton grew black as a thunder-cloud, at this childish speech. I silently shook my questioner, and, at last, succeeded in equipping her for departure.
"Now, get my horse," she said, addressing her unknown kinsman as she would one of the stable-boys at the Grange. "And you may
