showing which way the mental wind was blowing.

Albeit half-conscious of what that way was, I continued to assure
Psyche--my sister--that all was going well: that if she would only keep
quiet there would be no trouble, seeing that I knew my own weakness so
well--a habit of dropping the thing I am doing because something more
interesting always crops up. Here fortunately for us (and our bread and
cheese) there was nothing interesting--ab-so-lute-ly.

But in the end, when the work was finished, the image that had been
formed could no longer be thrust away and forgotten. It was there, an
entity as well as an image--an intelligent masterful being who said to
me not in words but very plainly: _Try to ignore me and it will be
worse for you: a secret want will continually disquiet you: recognize
my existence and right to dwell in and possess your soul, as you dwell
in mine, and there will be a pleasant union and peace between us._

To resist, to argue the matter like some miserable metaphysician would
have been useless.


The persistent image was of the old deep road, the green bank on each
side, on which stood thatched cottages, whitewashed or of the pale red
of old weathered bricks; each with its plot of ground or garden with,
in some cases, a few fruit trees. Here and there stood a large shade
tree--oak or pine or yew; then a vacant space, succeeded by a hedge,
gapped and ragged and bare, or of evergreen holly or yew, smoothly
trimmed; then a ploughed field, and again cottages, looking up or down
the road, or placed obliquely, or facing it: and looking at one
cottage and its surrounding, there would perhaps be a water-butt