he carved monument of the Lintons, nor yet
by the tombs of her own relations, outside. It was dug on a green slope
in a corner of the kirk-yard, where the wall is so low that heath and
bilberry-plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat-mould almost
buries it. Her husband lies in the same spot now; and they have each a
simple headstone above, and a plain grey block at their feet, to mark the
graves.

CHAPTER XVII

That Friday made the last of our fine days for a month. In the evening
the weather broke: the wind shifted from south to north-east, and brought
rain first, and then sleet and snow. On the morrow one could hardly
imagine that there had been three weeks of summer: the primroses and
crocuses were hidden under wintry drifts; the larks were silent, the
young leaves of the early trees smitten and blackened. And dreary, and
chill, and dismal, that morrow did creep over! My master kept his room;
I took possession of the lonely parlour, converting it into a nursery:
and there I was, sitting with the moaning doll of a child laid on my
knee; rocking it to and fro, and watching, meanwhile, the still driving
flakes build up the uncurtained window, when the door opened, and some
person entered, out of breath and laughing! My anger was greater than my
astonishment for a minute. I supposed it one of the maids, and I
cried--'Have done! How dare you show your giddiness here; What would Mr.
Linton say if he heard you?'

'Excuse me!' answered a familiar voice; 'but I know Edgar is in bed, and
I cannot stop myself.'

With that the speaker came forward to the fire, panting and holding her
hand to her side.

'I have run the whole way from Wuthering Heights!' she continued, after a
pause; 'except where I've flown. I couldn't count the number of falls
I've had. Oh, I'm aching all over! Don't be alarmed! There shall be an
explanation as soon as I can give it; only just have the goodness to step
out and order the carriage to take me on to Gimmerton, and tell a servant
to seek up a few clothes in my wardrobe.'

The intruder was Mrs. Heathcliff. She certainly seemed in no laughing
predicament: her hair streamed on her shoulders, dripping with snow and
water; she was dressed in the girlish dress she commonly wore, befitting
her age more than her position: a low frock with short sleeves, and
nothing on either head or neck. The frock was of light silk, and clung
to her with wet, and her feet were prote