Wuthering Heights

“Linton is just six months younger than I am,” she chattered, as we
strolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, under
shadow of the trees. “How delightful it will be to have him for a
playfellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it
was lighter than mine—more flaxen, and quite as fine. I have it
carefully preserved in a little glass box; and I’ve often thought what
a pleasure it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am happy—and papa, dear,
dear papa! Come, Ellen, let us run! come, run.”

She ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my sober
footsteps reached the gate, and then she seated herself on the grassy
bank beside the path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was
impossible: she couldn’t be still a minute.

“How long they are!” she exclaimed. “Ah, I see some dust on the
road—they are coming! No! When will they be here? May we not go a
little way—half a mile, Ellen, only just half a mile? Do say yes, to
that clump of birches at the turn!”

I refused staunchly. At length her suspense was ended: the travelling
carriage rolled in sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her
arms as soon as she caught her father’s face looking from the window.