This Christmas-time being come, and Agnes having reposed no new confidence in me, a doubt that had several times arisen in my mind⁠—whether she could have that perception of the true state of my breast, which restrained her with the apprehension of giving me pain⁠—began to oppress me heavily. If that were so, my sacrifice was nothing; my plainest obligation to her unfulfilled; and every poor action I had shrunk from, I was hourly doing. I resolved to set this right beyond all doubt;⁠—if such a barrier were between us, to break it down at once with a determined hand.

It was⁠—what lasting reason have I to remember it!⁠—a cold, harsh, winter day. There had been snow, some hours before; and it lay, not deep, but hard-frozen on the ground. Out at sea, beyond my window, the wind blew ruggedly from the north. I had been thinking of it, sweeping over those mountain wastes of snow in Switzerland, then inaccessible to any human foot; and had been speculating which was the lonelier, those solitary regions, or a deserted ocean.

“Riding today, Trot?” said my aunt, putting her head in at the door.