Only once, I searched through Joseph's store of theology, to his great irritation; and once, Hareton, I came upon a secret stock in your room--some Latin and Greek, and some tales and poetry: all old friends.

I brought the last here--and you gathered them, as a magpie gathers silver spoons, for the mere love of stealing! They are of no use to you; or else you concealed them in the bad spirit that, as you cannot enjoy them, nobody else shall.

Perhaps _your_ envy counselled Mr.Heathcliff to rob me of my treasures?
But I've most of them written on my brain and printed in my heart, and you cannot deprive me of those!' Earnshaw blushed crimson when his cousin made this revelation of his private literary accumulations, and stammered an indignant denial of her accusations.
'Mr.Hareton is desirous of increasing his amount of knowledge,' I said, coming to his rescue.

'He is not _envious_, but _emulous_ of your attainments.

He'll be a clever scholar in a few years.' 'And he wants me to sink into a dunce, meantime,' answered Catherine.
'Yes, I hear him trying to spell and read to himself, and pretty blunders he makes! I wish you would repeat Chevy Chase as you did yesterday: it was extremely funny.