eetion on his doing right, or what you thought right, on a certain
point of opinion?"

"He's living a lie, I tell you."

"I'm not sure but he's right not to have blazoned it. I'm not sure but
I'd have done the same myself."

"Well, as you just remarked, men are not angels. That you would have
done it doesn't prove anything."

Next morning Trenholme, whose half-awaked mind had not yet recurred to
the night's dispute stepped out of the house into a white morning fog,
not uncommon in fierce weather when holes for fishing had been made in
the ice of the lake. The air, seemingly as dry as smoke, but keen and
sweet, was almost opaque, like an atmosphere of white porcelain, if such
might be. The sun, like a scarlet ball, was just appearing; it might
have been near, it might have been far; no prospect was seen to mark the
distance. Trenholme was walking round by the white snow path, hardly
discerning the ox-shed to which he was bound, when he suddenly came
upon the dark figure of Bates, who was pitching hay for his Cattle.
Bates let down his fork and stood in his path.

"For God's sake, Mr. Trenholme," said he, "let your brother know where
you are."

Trenholme started: Bates's figure stood not unlike some gnarled thorn
that might have appeared to take human shape in the mist.

"For God's sake, man, write! If ye only knew what it was to feel the
weight of another soul on ye, and one that ye had a caring for! Ye're
easy angered yourself; ye might as easy anger another, almost without
knowing it; and if he or she was to go ye didn't know where, or perhaps
die, be sure ye would blame yourself without heeding their blame."

Bates's voice was trembling. The solemnity of his mien and the feminine
pronoun he had let slip revealed to Trenholme the direction his thoughts
had taken.

He went on, holding out an arm, as though by the gesture swearing to his
own transgression: "I counted myself a good man, and I'll not say now
but I did more for"--some name died upon his lips--"than one man in a
hundred would have done; but in my folly I angered her, and when I'd
have given my life ten times over--"

This, then, was the sorrow that dogged his life. Trenholme knew, without
more ado, that Bates loved the lost girl, that it was her loss that
outweighed all other misfortune. He felt a great compassion: he said
impatiently:

"There's no use trying to interfere between brothers. You can't see the
thing as I see it. Let's leave it."