"Look, Miss!" I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one twisted tree. "Winter is not here yet. 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.

'Look, Miss!' I exclaimed, pointing to the roots of one twisted tree. 'Winter is not here yet. There's a little flower there, the last bluebell of the year. Will you pluck it, to show to papa?'
Cathy stared at the lonely blossom, and replied, 'No, I'll not touch it: but it looks sad, does it not, Ellen?'
'Yes,' I observed, 'like you: your cheeks are bloodless; let us hold hands and run. I daresay I shall keep up with you.'
'No,' she repeated, and continued walking on, pausing at intervals. Frequently her hand was lifted to her averted face.
