Up and up the water climbed and came at last to the cellar walls, lipping them inquiringly. They had the isolated dignity of ruins on the Nile. They stood up in a little sea of waters and if anyone were to rip the strongbox of their secret open now, he must take a boat to reach it.
One evening Keith and Immy went out to bid the home a last good-by. They rode along the highway in a motor car and left it with its driver while they clambered down to sit upon the hillside and pay the final rites of observation.
Over their heads the automobiles went by in a stream, flashing back the sunset that turned the sheet of waters into blood.
As the sunset grew wan and colorless, the motor lamps came out like stars and the searchlights fenced as with swords. It grew chill, but the old brother and sister sat fascinated by the disappearance of all their memories under the climbing waters.
They were old and yet they felt themselves children, for they stared across the misty years between to the clear opposite heights of youth. Their hands unbidden moved to each other and clasped fingers. They were the last of their generation, though other generations out of their loins were gathering their own secrets of sins and griefs to keep from their own posterities.
At length by imperceptible deepenings the cellar walls were all engulfed. The lake was an unbroken mirror to the placid sky.
The house and farm of Tuliptree had been. They were no more.
But still the ancient children lingered, numb with cold and loneliness and yet at peace, wonderfully at peace.
Above their heads a motor had stopped in the thick hush of the gloaming. Two lovers, thinking themselves alone in their world, were whispering and scuffling in amorous play. There was a girl’s voice that gasped, “Don’t!” and a man’s voice that grumbled, “All right for you!”