“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 today. I’ve just seen him. He’s rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half.”
“Who is it, then, Mr. Kenneth?” I repeated impatiently.
“Hindley Earnshaw! Your old friend Hindley,” he replied, “and my wicked gossip: though he’s been too wild for me this long while. There! I said we should draw water. But cheer up! He died true to his character: drunk as a lord. Poor lad! I’m sorry, too. One can’t help missing an old companion: though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man imagined, and has done me many a rascally turn. He’s barely twenty-seven, it seems; that’s your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?”