Nelly Dean, the housekeeper, told me the rest, and this is her account. Old Mr Earnshaw walked to Liverpool one summer and came back three days later with a ragged black-haired child in his arms. He said he had found it starving in the streets and would not leave it. They christened it Heathcliff, one word, which served for both Christian name and surname. Hindley, the son, hated him from the first hour and struck him whenever the old man was out of sight. Catherine, six years old, learned to ride on his back within a week. The two of them ran on the moors all day and thought it the greatest punishment to be kept apart. When Mr Earnshaw died, Hindley came home master, and Heathcliff was sent out of the parlour to work with the ploughboys.