“I'll never forget you--never,” said the free little boy. “Nor I,” said the caged little girl. He ran and climbed: climbed out of her sight and out of her life. For the scandalized Varicks took her from that desecrated roof to the country, and when they came back Carlo's father was dead, and Carlo left with very little visible means of support. So they passed on their sundered ways. He went about his business of the fight for existence and his place in the world. She went about her business in a life of developing sunshine and beauty, herself the developing embodiment of both. The cage stood on the roof, lifeless, grim, and sad. Outwardly Our Square changes little. Inwardly it suffers from the depredations of the years and an encroaching populace. No more significant evidence of its failing fortunes could be adduced than the sale of the Varick mansion. It was purchased by a Swedish labor contractor, who sold it to a professional gambler, who in turn leased it to a boarding-house keeper, and that sinister third-floor front wherefrom Ver-nam Varick had so vehemently ousted his Satanic mentor came to be occupied (to what base uses!) by a piano-tuner. The cage of the wistful Tiger was found convenient for the week's wash. As for the Varicks, Our Square knew them no more. The fussy, fubsy, mean-tempered father of Paula became financially venturous (for a Varick), dipped extensively into water-rights and power-plants in the Southwest, and, having thus further improved the fortune handed down to him by Vernam the Devil-Chaser, built himself a smugly splendid palace on the Park, wherein to house Paula.