Catherine and he were constant companions still at his seasons of respite from labour; but he had ceased to express his fondness for her in words, and recoiled with angry suspicion from her girlish caresses, as if conscious there could be no gratification in lavishing such marks of affection on him. On the before-named occasion he came into the house to announce his intention of doing nothing, while I was assisting Miss Cathy to arrange her dress: she had not reckoned on his taking it into his head to be idle; and imagining she would have the whole place to herself, she managed, by some means, to inform Mr. Edgar of her brother’s absence, and was then preparing to receive him.

“Cathy, are you busy this afternoon?” asked Heathcliff. “Are you going anywhere?”

“No, it is raining,” she answered.

“Why have you that silk frock on, then?” he said. “Nobody coming here, I hope?”

“Not that I know of,” stammered Miss: “but you should be in the field now, Heathcliff. It is an hour past dinner time; I thought you were gone.”

“Hindley does not often free us from his accursed presence,” observed the boy. “I’ll not work any more to-day: I’ll stay with you.”

“Oh, but Joseph will tell,” she suggested; “you’d better go!”

“Joseph is loading lime on the further side of Penistone Crags; it will take him till dark, and he’ll never know.”

So saying, he lounged to the fire, and sat down. Catherine reflected an instant, with knitted brows—she found it needful to smooth the way for an intrusion. “Isabella and Edgar Linton talked of calling this afternoon,” she said, at the conclusion of a minute’s silence. “As it rains, I hardly expect them; but they may come, and if they do, you run the risk of being scolded for no good.”

“Order Ellen to say you are engaged, Cathy,” he persisted; “don’t turn me out for those pitiful, silly friends of yours! I’m on the point, sometimes, of complaining that they—but I’ll not—”

“That they what?” cried Catherine, gazing at him with a troubled countenance. “Oh, Nelly!” she added petulantly, jerking her head away from my hands, “you’ve combed my hair quite out of curl! That’s enough; let me alone. What are you on the point of complaining about, Heathcliff?”

“Nothing—only look at the almanack on that wall;” he pointed to a framed sheet hanging near the window, and continued, “The crosses are for the evenings you have spent with the Lintons, the dots for those spent with me. Do you see? I’ve marked every day.”

“Yes—very foolish: as if I took notice!” replied Catherine, in a peevish tone. “And where is the sense of that?”

“To show that I do take notice,” said Heathcliff.