ernity they have entered--where life is
boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its
fulness. I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is even
in a love like Mr. Linton's, when he so regretted Catherine's blessed
release! To be sure, one might have doubted, after the wayward and
impatient existence she had led, whether she merited a haven of peace at
last. One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not then, in
the presence of her corpse. It asserted its own tranquillity, which
seemed a pledge of equal quiet to its former inhabitant.

Do you believe such people are happy in the other world, sir? I'd give a
great deal to know.

I declined answering Mrs. Dean's question, which struck me as something
heterodox. She proceeded:

Retracing the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right to
think she is; but we'll leave her with her Maker.

The master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to quit the
room and steal out to the pure refreshing air. The servants thought me
gone to shake off the drowsiness of my protracted watch; in reality, my
chief motive was seeing Mr. Heathcliff. If he had remained among the
larches all night, he would have heard nothing of the stir at the Grange;
unless, perhaps, he might catch the gallop of the messenger going to
Gimmerton. If he had come nearer, he would probably be aware, from the
lights flitting to and fro, and the opening and shutting of the outer
doors, that all was not right within. I wished, yet feared, to find him.
I felt the terrible news must be told, and I longed to get it over; but
how to do it I did not know. He was there--at least, a few yards further
in the park; leant against an old ash-tree, his hat off, and his hair
soaked with the dew that had gathered on the budded branches, and fell
pattering round him. He had been standing a long time in that position,
for I saw a pair of ousels passing and repassing scarcely three feet from
him, busy in building their nest, and regarding his proximity no more
than that of a piece of timber. They flew off at my approach, and he
raised his eyes and spoke:--'She's dead!' he said; 'I've not waited for
you to learn that. Put your handkerchief away--don't snivel before me.
Damn you all! she wants none of your tears!'

I was weeping as much for him as her: we do sometimes pity creatures that
have none of the feeling either for themselves or others. When I first