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.