There's a little flower up yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those turf steps in July with a lilac mist.

Will you clamber up, and pluck it to show to papa ?' Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length--'No, I'll not touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen ?' 'Yes,' I observed, 'about as starved and suckless as you: your cheeks are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run.

You're so low, I daresay I shall keep up with you.' 'No,' she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.
'Catherine, why are you crying, love ?' I asked, approaching and putting my arm over her shoulder.

'You mustn't cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse.' She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled by sobs.
'Oh, it will be something worse,' she said.

'And what shall I do when papa and you leave me, and I am by myself?
I can't forget your words, Ellen; they are always in my ear.