He did not search for anything that he might have left.

He simply stood for a few minutes under the gray-trunked alders that were so marked by the loving hands of long ago men and maidens--beside the mint bordered spring with the scattered stones of that old foundation--where, through the screen of boughs and vines and virgin's-bower the sunlight fell as through the traceries of a cathedral window, and the low, deep tones of the mountain waters came like the music of a great organ.
It is likely that Aaron King, himself, could not, at that time, have told why, as he was leaving the hills, he had paused to visit once more the spot where Sibyl Andres had brought to him her three gifts from the mountains--where, in her pure innocence, she had danced before him the dance of the mating butterflies--and where, with the music of her violin, she had saved their friendship from the perils that threatened it--lifting their intimate comradeship into the pure atmosphere of the higher levels, even as she had shown him the trails that lead from the lower canyon to the summits and peaks of the encircling mountain walls.

But when he rejoined his friend there was something in his face that prevented the novelist from making any comment in a laughing vein.
As the two men passed outward through the canyon gates and, looking backward as they went, saw those mighty doors close silently behind them, the artist was moved by emotions that were strange and new to the man who, two months before, had watched those gates open to receive him.

This, too, is true; as that man, then, knew, but did not know, the mountains; so this man, now, knew, yet still did not know, himself.
Where the road crosses, for the last time, the tumbling stream from the heart of the hills, they halted; and for one night slept again at the foot of the mountains.

The next day they arrived at their little home in the orange grove.