No one loved it better than the Disagreeable Man did; he watched the sunlight on it, now pale golden, now fiery red. He loved the sky, the dull grey, or the bright blue. He loved the snow forests, and the snow-girt streams, and the ice cathedrals, and the great firs patient beneath their snow-burden. He loved the frozen waterfalls, and the costly diamonds in the snow. He knew, too, where the flowers nestled in their white nursery. He was, indeed, an authority on Alpine botany. The same tender hands which plucked the flowers in the spring-time, dissected them and laid them bare beneath the microscope. But he did not love them the less for that. Were these pursuits a comfort to him? Did they help him to forget that there was a time when he, too, was burning with ambition to distinguish himself, and be one of the marked men of the age? Who could say? CHAPTER VI. THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE. COUNTLESS ages ago a Traveller, much worn with journeying, climbed up the last bit of rough road which led to the summit of a high mountain. There was a temple on that mountain. And the Traveller had vowed that he would reach it before death prevented him. He knew the journey was long, and the road rough. He knew that the mountain was the most difficult of ascent of that mountain chain, called "The Ideals." But he had a strongly-hoping heart and a sure foot. He lost all sense of time, but he never lost the feeling of hope. "Even if I faint by the way-side," he said to himself, "and am not able to reach the summit, still it is something to be on the road which leads to the High Ideals." That was how he comforted himself when he was weary. He never lost more hope than that; and surely that was little enough. And now he had reached the temple. He rang the bell, and an old white-haired man opened the gate. He smiled sadly when he saw the Traveller. "_And yet another one_," he murmured. "What does it all mean?" The Traveller did not hear what he murmured. "Old white-haired man," he said, "tell me; and so I have come at last to the wonderful Temple of Knowledge. I have been journeying hither all my life. Ah, but it is hard work climbing up to the Ideals." The old man touched the Traveller on the arm. "Listen," he said gently. "This is not the Temple of Knowledge. And the Ideals are not a chain of mountains; they are a stretch of plains, and the Temple of Knowledge is in their centre. You have come the wrong road. Alas, poor Traveller!" The light in the Traveller's eyes had faded. The hope in his heart died. And he became old and withered. He leaned heavily on his staff. "Can one rest here?" he asked wearily. "No." "Is there a way down the other side of these mountains?" "No." "What are these mountains called?" "They have no name." "And the temple--how do you call the temple?" "It has no name!" "Then I call it the Temple of Broken Hearts," said the Traveller.