On the morning of a fine June day my first bonny little nursling, and the last of the ancient Earnshaw stock, was born.

We were busy with the hay in a far-away field, when the girl that usually brought our breakfasts came running an hour too soon across the meadow and up the lane, calling me as she ran.
'Oh, such a grand bairn!' she panted out.

'The finest lad that ever breathed! But the doctor says missis must go: he says she's been in a consumption these many months.

I heard him tell Mr.Hindley: and now she has nothing to keep her, and she'll be dead before winter.

You must come home directly.