MARK TWAIN

All the circumstances of this death were pathetic—my
brain is worn to rags rehearsing them. Yes, and cursing
them—cursing the conception and invention of them. The
mere death would have been cruelty enough, without over-
loading it and emphasizing it with that score of harsh and
wanton details. The child was taken away when her
mother was within three days of her, and would have
given three decades for sight of her.

In my despair and unassuageable misery I upbraid my-
self for ever parting with her. But there is no use in that
Since it was to happen it would have happened.

With love S.LC

It tickled Susy—Jo TwichelPs war-whooping, when he
would meet Clara on the street in Hartford.

Susy had faults but the memory of them was sub-
merged in that great darkness which descended upon us
when her life was quenched, and I do not know what they
were.

Susy and Clara—one on each side of me—selecting
hickory nut kernels for me—"That's a good one." They
beguiled me into many an indigestion and loss of sleep.

The last ms. of mine that ever I read to her was four-
fifths of the last chapter of Joan—and the last words of
that which I read were "How rich was the world, etc."

And to me these words have a personal meaning now.

When out of her head she said many things that showed
she was proud of being my daughter. "It is because I am
Mark Twain's daughter." The attentions shown us in
Australia, India, etc.—"Katy" (to her maid), "that is my
family."

In the burning heat of those final days in Hart-
ford she would walk to the window or lie on the
couch in her fever and delirium, and when the cars