ning at death!" and the old sinner
grinned in mockery.

I thought he intended to cut a caper round the bed; but suddenly
composing himself, he fell on his knees and raised his hands, and
returned thanks that the lawful master and the ancient stock were
restored to their rights.

I felt stunned by the awful event; and my memory unavoidably recurred to
former times with a sort of oppressive sadness. But poor Hareton, the
most wronged, was the only one that really suffered much. He sat by the
corpse all night, weeping in bitter earnest. He pressed its hand, and
kissed the sarcastic, savage face that every one else shrank from
contemplating; and bemoaned him with that strong grief which springs
naturally from a generous heart, though it be tough as tempered steel.

Kenneth was perplexed to pronounce of what disorder the master died. I
concealed the fact of his having swallowed nothing for four days,
fearing it might lead to trouble; and then, I am persuaded, he did not
abstain on purpose: it was the consequence of his strange illness, not
the cause.

We buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighborhood, as he had
wished. Earnshaw and I, the sexton, and six men to carry the coffin,
comprehended the whole attendance.

The six men departed when they had let it down into the grave: we stayed
to see it covered. Hareton, with a streaming face, dug green sods and
laid them over the brown mold himself. At present it is as smooth and
verdant as its companion mounds--and I hope its tenant sleeps as
soundly. But the country folks, if you asked them, would swear on their
Bibles that he _walks_. There are those who speak to having met him near
the church, and on the moor, and even within this house. Idle tales,
you'll say, and so say I. Yet that old man by the kitchen fire affirms
he has seen "two on 'em" looking out of his chamber window on every
rainy night since his death--and an odd thing happened to me about a
month ago.

I was going to the grange one evening--a dark evening threatening
thunder--and, just at the turn of the Heights, I encountered a little
boy with a sheep and two lambs before him. He was crying terribly, and I
supposed the lambs were skittish and would not be guided.

"What is the matter, my little man?" I asked.

"They's Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t' nab," he blubbered, "un'
aw darnut pass 'em."

I saw nothing, but neither the sheep nor he would go on, so I bid him
take the road lower down