'Catherine Earnshaw, her book,' and a date some quarter of a
century back. I shut it, and took up another and another, till I
had examined all. Catherine's library was select, and its state of
dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not
altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had
escaped, a pen-and-ink commentary - at least the appearance of one
- covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some
were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular
diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an
extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I
was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend
Joseph, - rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest
kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith
to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.

'An awful Sunday,' commenced the paragraph beneath. 'I wish my
father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute - his
conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious - H. and I are going to rebel -
we took our initiatory step this evening.

'All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so
Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, while
Hindley and his wife basked downstairs before a comfortable fire -
doing anything but reading their Bibles, I'll answer for it -
Heathcliff, myself, and the unhappy ploughboy were commanded to
take our prayer-books, and mount: we were ranged in a row, on a
sack of corn, groaning and shivering, and hoping that Joseph would
shiver too, so that he might give us a short homily for his own
sake. A vain idea! The service lasted precisely three hours; and
yet my brother had the face to exclaim, when he saw us descending,