ety for fear of a little fatigue. His father remarked
the restless glances wandering to the window, and the hand irresolutely
extended towards his cap.

'Get up, you idle boy!' he exclaimed, with assumed heartiness.

'Away after them! they are just at the corner, by the stand of hives.'

Linton gathered his energies, and left the hearth. The lattice was open,
and, as he stepped out, I heard Cathy inquiring of her unsociable
attendant what was that inscription over the door? Hareton stared up, and
scratched his head like a true clown.

'It's some damnable writing,' he answered. 'I cannot read it.'

'Can't read it?' cried Catherine; 'I can read it: it's English. But I
want to know why it is there.'

Linton giggled: the first appearance of mirth he had exhibited.

'He does not know his letters,' he said to his cousin. 'Could you
believe in the existence of such a colossal dunce?'

'Is he all as he should be?' asked Miss Cathy, seriously; 'or is he
simple: not right? I've questioned him twice now, and each time he
looked so stupid I think he does not understand me. I can hardly
understand him, I'm sure!'

Linton repeated his laugh, and glanced at Hareton tauntingly; who
certainly did not seem quite clear of comprehension at that moment.

'There's nothing the matter but laziness; is there, Earnshaw?' he said.
'My cousin fancies you are an idiot. There you experience the
consequence of scorning "book-larning," as you would say. Have you
noticed, Catherine, his frightful Yorkshire pronunciation?'

'Why, where the devil is the use on't?' growled Hareton, more ready in
answering his daily companion. He was about to enlarge further, but the
two youngsters broke into a noisy fit of merriment: my giddy miss being
delighted to discover that she might turn his strange talk to matter of
amusement.

'Where is the use of the devil in that sentence?' tittered Linton. 'Papa
told you not to say any bad words, and you can't open your mouth without
one. Do try to behave like a gentleman, now do!'

'If thou weren't more a lass than a lad, I'd fell thee this minute, I
would; pitiful lath of a crater!' retorted the angry boor, retreating,
while his face burnt with mingled rage and mortification! for he was
conscious of being insulted, and embarrassed how to resent it.

Mr. Heathcliff having overheard the conversation, as well as I, smiled
when he saw him go; but immediately afterwards cast a look of singular
aversion