"To the bottom of the park," she stammered. "I didn't tell a tale."
"And no where else?" I demanded.
"No," was the muttered reply.
"Oh, Catherine," I cried, sorrowfully. "You know you have been doing wrong, or you wouldn't be driven to uttering an untruth to me. That does grieve me. I'd rather be three months ill, than hear you frame a deliberate lie."
She sprang forward, and bursting into tears, threw her arms round my neck.
"Well Ellen, I'm so afraid of you being angry," she said. "Promise not to be angry, and you shall know the very truth. I hate to hide it."
We sat down in the window-seat; I assured her I would not scold, whatever her secret might be, and I guessed it, of course, so she commenced—
"I've been to Wuthering Heights, Ellen,
