Catherine Earnshaw's Book

It was a testament in lean type and smelling dreadfully musty. A flyleaf bore the inscription, Catherine Earnshaw, her book, and a date some quarter of a century back. I shut it, and took up another and another till I had examined all. Scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen and ink commentary,. at least the appearance of one. Some were detached sentences, other parts took the form of a regular diary scrawled in an unformed childish hand. At the top of an extra page, quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on, I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph - rudely yet powerfully sketched.