emained there; he was asleep.

And asleep, a sentinel on the--top of the rise, he appeared to rule over
this prospect--remarkable--like some image blocked out by the special
artist, of primeval Forsytes in pagan days, to record the domination of
mind over matter!

And all the unnumbered generations of his yeoman ancestors, wont of a
Sunday to stand akimbo surveying their little plots of land, their grey
unmoving eyes hiding their instinct with its hidden roots of violence,
their instinct for possession to the exclusion of all the world--all
these unnumbered generations seemed to sit there with him on the top of
the rise.

But from him, thus slumbering, his jealous Forsyte spirit travelled far,
into God-knows-what jungle of fancies; with those two young people, to
see what they were doing down there in the copse--in the copse where
the spring was running riot with the scent of sap and bursting buds,
the song of birds innumerable, a carpet of bluebells and sweet growing
things, and the sun caught like gold in the tops of the trees; to see
what they were doing, walking along there so close together on the path
that was too narrow; walking along there so close that they were always
touching; to watch Irene's eyes, like dark thieves, stealing the heart
out of the spring. And a great unseen chaperon, his spirit was there,
stopping with them to look at the little furry corpse of a mole, not
dead an hour, with his mushroom-and-silver coat untouched by the rain or
dew; watching over Irene's bent head, and the soft look of her pitying
eyes; and over that young man's head, gazing at her so hard, so
strangely. Walking on with them, too, across the open space where a
wood-cutter had been at work, where the bluebells were trampled down,
and a trunk had swayed and staggered down from its gashed stump.
Climbing it with them, over, and on to the very edge of the copse,
whence there stretched an undiscovered country, from far away in which
came the sounds, 'Cuckoo-cuckoo!'

Silent, standing with them there, and uneasy at their silence! Very
queer, very strange!

Then back again, as though guilty, through the wood--back to the
cutting, still silent, amongst the songs of birds that never ceased, and
the wild scent--hum! what was it--like that herb they put in--back to
the log across the path....

And then unseen, uneasy, flapping above them, trying to make noises,
his Forsyte spirit watched her balanced on the log, her pretty figure