And there her story ends. The leaves you turn
Are blank; and where a story ends it ends.
So Bartholow left him there on the steps of the old house that he had sold after the others had disappeared. Umfraville was free and Bartholow, with his memories before him, was alone and free. A cold fire was his light to prove, but he knew it never would go out. There would always be with him the memories of Gabrielle, the cool fragrance of her body, the silent beauty of her deed. The key he held in his hand was the key to the ivied house. The key he held was his no longer. For the last time it had locked for him a door that once had opened to so much pain. But a tide was come and there were no more sand castles. All was as it had been and was to be.
They are all gone away,
The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.
LEWIS P. CURTIS.