Wuthering Heights

and, at first, it gave me delightful relief to observe, in hurrying by the farm-house, Charlie, the fiercest of the pointers, lying under a window, with swelled head, and bleeding ear.
    I opened the wicket, and ran to the door, knocking vehemently for admittance. A woman whom I knew, and who formerly lived at Gimmerton, answered – she had been servant there since the death of Mr. Earnshaw.
    »Ah,« said she, »you are come a seeking your little mistress! don't be frightened. She's here safe – but I'm glad it isn't the master.«
    »He is not at home then, is he?« I panted, quite breathless with quick walking and alarm.
    »No, no,« she replied: »both he and Joseph are off, and I think they won't return this hour or more. Step in and rest you a bit.«
    I entered, and beheld my stray lamb, seated on the hearth, rocking herself in a little chair that had been her mother's, when a child. Her hat was hung against the wall, and she seemed perfectly at home, laughing and chattering, in the best spirits imaginable, to Hareton, now a great, strong lad of eighteen, who stared at her with considerable curiosity and astonishment; comprehending precious little of the fluent succession of remarks and questions which her tongue never ceased pouring forth.
    »Very well, Miss,« I exclaimed, concealing my joy under an angry countenance. »This is your last ride, till papa comes back. I'll not trust you over the threshold again, you naughty, naughty girl.«
    »Aha, Ellen!« she cried, gaily, jumping up, and running to my side. »I shall have a pretty story to tell to-night – and so you've found me out. Have you ever been here in your life before?«
    »Put that hat on, and home at once,« said I. »I'm dreadfully grieved at you, Miss Cathy, you've done extremely wrong! It's no use pouting and crying; that won't repay the trouble I've had, scouring the country after you. To think how Mr. Linton charged me to keep you in; and you stealing off so; it shows you are a cunning little fox, and nobody will put faith in you any more.«
    »What have I done?« sobbed she, instantly checked. »Papa charged me nothing – he'll not scold me, Ellen – he's never cross, like you!«
    »Come, come!« I repeated. »I'll tie the riband. Now, let us have no petulance. Oh, for shame. You thirteen years old, and such a baby!«
    This exclamation was caused by her pushing the hat from her head, and retreating to the chimney out of my reach.
    »Nay,« said the servant, »don't be hard on the bonny lass, Mrs. Dean. We made her stop – she'd fain have ridden forwards, afeard you should be uneasy. But Hareton offered to go with her, and I thought he should. It's a wild road over the hills.«
    Hareton, during the discussion, stood with his hands in his pockets, too awkward to speak, though he looked as if he did not relish my intrusion.
    »How long am I to wait?« I continued, disregarding the woman's interference. »It will be dark in ten minutes. Where is the pony, Miss Cathy? And where is Phenix? I shall leave you, unless you be quick, so please yourself.«
    »The pony is in the yard,« she replied, »and Phenix is shut in there. He's bitten – and so is Charlie. I was going to tell you all about it; but you are in a bad temper, and don't deserve to hear.«
    I picked up her hat, and approached to reinstate it; but perceiving that the people of the house took her part, she commenced capering round the room; and, on my giving chase, ran like a mouse, over and under, and behind the furniture, rendering it ridiculous for me to pursue.
    Hareton and the woman laughed; and she joined them, and waxed more impertinent still; till I cried, in great irritation,
    »Well, Miss Cathy, if you were aware whose house this is, you'd be glad enough to get out.«
    »It's
your
father's, isn't it?« said she, turning to Hareton.
    »Nay,« he replied, looking down, and blushing bashfully.
    He could not stand a steady gaze from her eyes, though they were just his own.
    »Whose then – your master's?« she asked.
    He coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, and turned away.
    »Who is his master?« continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me. »He talked about ›our house,‹ and ›our folk.‹ I thought he had been the owner's son. And he never said, Miss; he should have done, shouldn't he, if he's a servant?«
    Hareton grew black as a thunder-cloud, at this childish speech. I silently shook my questioner, and, at last, succeeded in equipping her for