I felt stunned by the awful event; and my memory unavoidably recurred to former times with a sort of oppressive sadness.  But poor Hareton, the most wronged, was the only one that really suffered much.  He sat by the corpse all night, weeping in bitter earnest.  He pressed its hand, and kissed the sarcastic, savage face that every one else shrank from contemplating; and bemoaned him with that strong grief which springs naturally from a generous heart, though it be tough as tempered steel.

Kenneth was perplexed to pronounce of what disorder the master died.  I concealed the fact of his having swallowed nothing for four days, fearing it might lead to trouble; and then, I am persuaded, he did not abstain on purpose:  it was the consequence of his strange illness, not the cause.

We buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighborhood, as he had wished.  Earnshaw and I, the sexton, and six men to carry the coffin, comprehended the whole attendance.

The six men departed when they had let it down into the grave:  we stayed to see it covered.  Hareton, with a streaming face, dug green sods and laid them over the brown mold himself.  At present it is as smooth and verdant as its companion mounds—­and I hope its tenant sleeps as soundly.  But the country folks, if you asked them, would swear on their Bibles that he walks.  There are those who speak to having met him near the church, and on the moor, and even within this house.  Idle tales, you’ll say, and so say I. Yet that old man by the kitchen fire affirms he has seen “two on ’em” looking out of his chamber window on every rainy night since his death—­and an odd thing happened to me about a month ago.

I was going to the grange one evening—­a dark evening threatening thunder—­and, just at the turn of the Heights, I encountered a little boy with a sheep and two lambs before him.  He was crying terribly, and I supposed the lambs were skittish and would not be guided.

“What is the matter, my little man?” I asked.

“They’s Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t’ nab,” he blubbered, “un’ aw darnut pass ’em.”

I saw nothing, but neither the sheep nor he would go on, so I bid him take the road lower down.  He probably raised the phantoms from thinking, as he traversed the moors alone, on the nonsense he had heard his parents and companions repeat; yet still I don’t like being out in the dark now, and I don’t like being left by myself in this grim house.  I cannot help it; I shall be glad when they leave it and shift to the Grange!

* * * * *

“They are going to the Grange, then?” I said.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Dean, “as soon as they are married; and that will be on New Year’s day.”

“And who will live here then?”

“Why, Joseph will take care of the house, and perhaps a lad to keep him company.  They will live in the kitchen, and the rest will be shut up.”