This page has been validated.
WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
139
CHAPTER VIII.
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
