‘Well, Nelly,’ said he, riding into the yard one morning, too early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news, ‘it’s yours and my turn to go into mourning at present. Who’s given us the slip now, do you think?’

‘Who?’ I asked in a flurry.

‘Why, guess!’ he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a hook by the door. ‘And nip up the corner of your apron: I’m certain you’ll need it.’

‘Not Mr Heathcliff, surely?’ I exclaimed.

‘What! would you have tears for him?’ said the doctor. ‘No, Heathcliff’s a tough young fellow; he looks blooming to-day - I’ve just seen him. He’s rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half.’