Dear old Eleanor and I have gone back to our old ways.

She had left my side of our room untouched.

It was in talking of our recent parting, and all that has come and gone in our lives, that the fancy came upon us of writing our biographies this winter.
And here, in the dear old kitchen, round which the wild wind howls like music, with the dear boys dreaming at our feet, we bring them to an end.
* * * * * This dusty relic of an old fad had been lying by for more than a year, when I found it to-day, in emptying a box to send some books in to Oxford, to Jack.
Eleanor should have had it, for we are parted, after all; but her husband has more interest in hers, so we each keep our own.
She is married, to George Abercrombie, and I mean to paste the bit out of the newspaper account of their wedding on to the end of this, as a sort of last chapter.

It would be as long as all the rest put together if I were to write down all the ups and downs, and ins and outs, that went before the marriage, and I suppose these things are always very much alike.
I like him very much, and I am going to stay with them.

The wedding was very pretty.