Wuthering Heights

“I can’t sit on a chair,” sobbed the boy.

“Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,” answered
his uncle patiently.

He had been greatly tried, during the journey, I felt convinced, by his
fretful ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed himself off, and lay down.
Cathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side. At first she sat
silent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her
little cousin, as she would have him to be; and she commenced stroking
his curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer,
like a baby. This pleased him, for he was not much better: he dried his
eyes, and lightened into a faint smile.

“Oh, he’ll do very well,” said the master to me, after watching them a
minute. “Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The company of a child
of his own age will instil new spirit into him soon, and by wishing for
strength he’ll gain it.”

“Ay, if we can keep him!” I mused to myself; and sore misgivings came
over me that there was slight hope of that. And then, I thought, how
ever will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights? Between his father
and Hareton, what playmates and instructors they’ll be. Our doubts were