THE evening after the funeral, my young lady and I were seated in the library; now musing mournfully - one of us despairingly - on our loss, now venturing conjectures as to the gloomy future.

We had just agreed the best destiny which could await Catherine would be a permission to continue resident at the Grange; at least during Linton’s life: he being allowed to join her there, and I to remain as housekeeper. That seemed rather too favourable an arrangement to be hoped for; and yet I did hope, and began to cheer up under the prospect of retaining my home and my employment, and, above all, my beloved young mistress; when a servant - one of the discarded ones, not yet departed - rushed hastily in, and said ‘that devil Heathcliff’ was coming through the court: should he fasten the door in his face?