He stepped forward, and called him by name, and touched his shoulder; but he would not move: so he took the candle and looked at him. I thought there was something wrong as he set down the light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them to “frame upstairs, and make little din⁠—they might pray alone that evening⁠—he had summut to do.”

“I shall bid father good night first,” said Catherine, putting her arms round his neck, before we could hinder her. The poor thing discovered her loss directly⁠—she screamed out⁠—“Oh, he’s dead, Heathcliff! he’s dead!” And they both set up a heartbreaking cry.