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