ate, though painfully suggestive of their causes, added to
the touching interest which she awakened; and--invariably to me, I know,
and to any person who saw her, I should think--refuted more tangible
proofs of convalescence, and stamped her as one doomed to decay.

A book lay spread on the sill before her, and the scarcely perceptible
wind fluttered its leaves at intervals. I believe Linton had laid it
there: for she never endeavoured to divert herself with reading, or
occupation of any kind, and he would spend many an hour in trying to
entice her attention to some subject which had formerly been her
amusement. She was conscious of his aim, and in her better moods endured
his efforts placidly, only showing their uselessness by now and then
suppressing a wearied sigh, and checking him at last with the saddest of
smiles and kisses. At other times, she would turn petulantly away, and
hide her face in her hands, or even push him off angrily; and then he
took care to let her alone, for he was certain of doing no good.

Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing; and the full, mellow flow of
the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet
substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which drowned
that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf. At Wuthering
Heights it always sounded on quiet days following a great thaw or a
season of steady rain. And of Wuthering Heights Catherine was thinking
as she listened: that is, if she thought or listened at all; but she had
the vague, distant look I mentioned before, which expressed no
recognition of material things either by ear or eye.

'There's a letter for you, Mrs. Linton,' I said, gently inserting it in
one hand that rested on her knee. 'You must read it immediately, because
it wants an answer. Shall I break the seal?' 'Yes,' she answered,
without altering the direction of her eyes. I opened it--it was very
short. 'Now,' I continued, 'read it.' She drew away her hand, and let
it fall. I replaced it in her lap, and stood waiting till it should
please her to glance down; but that movement was so long delayed that at
last I resumed--'Must I read it, ma'am? It is from Mr. Heathcliff.'

There was a start and a troubled gleam of recollection, and a struggle to
arrange her ideas. She lifted the letter, and seemed to peruse it; and
when she came to the signature she sighed: yet still I found she had not
gathered its import, for,