Tw*ttering Heights

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.' 'For the use of such ghosts as choose to inhabit it?' I observed. 'No, Mr.

Lockwood,' said Nelly, shaking her head. 'I believe the dead are at peace: but it is not right to speak of them with levity.' At that

moment the garden gate swung to; the ramblers were returning. '_They_ are afraid of nothing,' I grumbled, watching their approach through

the window. 'Together, they would brave Satan and all his legions.' As they stepped on to the door-stones, and halted to take a last

remembrance into the hand of Mrs. Dean, and disregarding her expostulations at my rudeness, I vanished through the kitchen as they opened

the house-door; and so should have confirmed Joseph in his opinion of his fellow-servant's gay indiscretions, had he not fortunately

recognised me for a respectable character by the sweet ring of a sovereign at his feet. My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the

direction of the kirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had made progress, even in seven months: many a window showed black gaps

deprived of glass; and slates jutted off here and there, beyond the right line of the roof, to be gradually worked off in coming autumn

storms. I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: on middle one grey, and half buried in the heath;

Edgar Linton's only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff's still bare. I lingered round them, under that

benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and

wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet

earth.

The end.