Leaving the cottage of illusion,—this is what he termed it to himself, and very bitterly,—he had made for the south, to the pass between the hills. Descending for a time, the path had at length led upwards between more pine woods, like to that he had lately traversed. Misery and the whiteness of the snow combined to daze him. He walked like a man in a trance. Subconsciously his mind worked, came to the state I have shown you. In this mood he formed certain aphorisms, some possibly already known by him; some new, created from old material. “_Cogito, ergo sum_,—I think, therefore I exist,” being the first of them it led easily to his second. “Thought is a creative power. Think deeply, and you will create greatly.” _Ergo_, by dwelling with every particle of his mind on the thought of the woman he sought, he would create her. “Hope is a collective force. Terror and doubt disperse what you have thereby acquired.” _Ergo_, hope was the thought by which he would collect material for his creation. To allow terror or doubt to work alongside would be to undertake one of the seven labours of Hercules. “Desire, being also thought and thereby creative, brings its own attainment.” _Ergo_, he desired the woman he sought and would attain to her. This was as certain as that a wheat seed can bring forth nought but wheat. It became, to his mind, a law of Nature. You see each of his aphorisms harping to the same end. Doubtless there were plenty more of them. Those I have given you will suffice. Coming near the summit of the hill he made out a wayside cross, backgrounded by the pines. It stood weather-beaten and solitary. Here and there the stone was hidden by yellow fungus and grey lichen. Below it knelt a figure. For a breathing space Peregrine felt his heart bound. The next instant he had himself and his heart well under control. No second time would he give way to mere fancy. Here he was very wise. Coming further he saw a little peasant girl, ragged and ill clad. At the foot of the cross she had laid a bunch of holly. She turned on his approach, looking at him with wide childish eyes. “I give you good-day, sir,” she said shyly, as he paused a moment. “Good-day,” responded Peregrine, though in no mood to term it truly good. “I—I have laid the holly there,” she said, as seeing him still stop she sought for conversation. “A pretty thought,” said Peregrine indulgently. It was no more in his nature to snub a child than to strike an animal. “I often bring flowers,” pursued the little maid. “First there are daffodils and primroses to bring. They are very fresh and sweet. Later come bluebells and herb Robert. They are not so pleasant-scented. Next come roses and honeysuckle. They are the most fragrant of all. In the autumn there are always leaves, which are as pretty as flowers, when they are red and gold. Now there is holly.” “That is pretty too,” said Peregrine.