It went out with an honorable name. It went into oblivion with no history, and the old word of Tacitus about nations was true of houses, too. Happy is the house that has no history. But all houses, and all nations, have histories—if one only knew. Keith was almost sorry that the cellar walls were left. He had braced himself against the shock of revelation and when it did not come, he suffered a collapse of strength. But he could not share this disappointment with anyone. It must remain forever a RoBards secret to die with him. When at last the dam was piled across the valley, and the little brooks encountered it, they backed up and filled their own beds to overflowing. They swelled till they covered the levels where the bridges had been. Stealthily they erased the roads that dipped into them now and ran under water till they climbed out again on the opposite slope. The brooks united into a pond and the pond widened and lengthened. It began to climb the hills and wind about the promontories. It aspired toward the highway cut out of the rock along the top of the hills, and toward the lengthy tall-piered concrete bridge with the ornaments of green bronze. Keith and Immy watched the gradual drowning of the farm and took their last walks about it, hand in hand, until long arms of water cut off their approach even to the Tarn of Mystery, which was now a bald hillock, an island height, a tiny Ararat. 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. * * * * *