Wuthering Heights

shelter, and replied, at length—“No, I’ll not touch it: but it looks
melancholy, does it not, Ellen?”

“Yes,” I observed, “about as starved and sackless as you: your cheeks
are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You’re so low, I
daresay I shall keep up with you.”

“No,” she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals
to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus
spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever
and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.

“Catherine, why are you crying, love?” I asked, approaching and putting
my arm over her shoulder. “You mustn’t cry because papa has a cold; be
thankful it is nothing worse.”

She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled
by sobs.

“Oh, it _will_ be something worse,” she said. “And what shall I do when
papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can’t forget your words,
Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary
the world will be, when papa and you are dead.”

“None can tell whether you won’t die before us,” I replied. “It’s wrong
to anticipate evil. We’ll hope there are years and years to come before