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`Well, Nelly,' said he, riding into the yard one morning, too early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news, `it's yours and my turn to go into mourning at present. Who's given us the slip now, do you think?'
`Who?' I asked in a flurry.
`Why, guess!' he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a hook by the door. `And nip up the corner of your apron: I'm certain you'll need it.'
`Not Mr Heathcliff, surely?' I exclaimed.
`What! would you have tears for him?' said the doctor. `No, Heathcliff's a tough young fellow: he looks blooming today. I've just seen him. He's rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half.'
`Who is it then, Mr Kenneth?' I repeated impatiently.
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`Hindley Earnshaw! Your old friend Hindley,' he replied, `and my wicked gossip: though he's been too wild for me this long while. There! I said we should draw water. But cheer up. He died true to his character: drunk as a lord. Poor lad! I'm sorry, too. One can't help missing an old companion: though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man imagined, and has done me many a rascally turn. He's barely twenty-seven, it seems; that's your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?'