It was expected that the move would be made early in the month; but there were delays, and it was not until the 18th of June that he took possession.

The plan, at this time, was only to use the Redding place as a summer residence, and the Fifth Avenue house was not dismantled.  A few days before the 18th the servants, with one exception, were taken up to the new house, Clemens and myself remaining in the loneliness of No. 21, attending to the letters in the morning and playing billiards the rest of the time, waiting for the appointed day and train.  It was really a pleasant three days.  He invented a new game, and we were riotous and laughed as loudly as we pleased.  I think he talked very little of the new home which he was so soon to see.  It was referred to no oftener than once or twice a day, and then I believe only in connection with certain of the billiard-room arrangements.  I have wondered since what picture of it he could have had in his mind, for he had never seen a photograph.  He had a general idea that it was built upon a hill, and that its architecture was of the Italian villa order.  I confess I had moments of anxiety, for I had selected the land for him, and had been more or less accessory otherwise.  I did not really worry, for I knew how beautiful and peaceful it all was; also something of his taste and needs.

It had been a dry spring, and country roads were dusty, so that those who were responsible had been praying for rain, to be followed by a pleasant day for his arrival.  Both petitions were granted; June 18th would fall on Thursday, and Monday night there came a good, thorough, and refreshing shower that washed the vegetation clean and laid the dust.  The morning of the 18th was bright and sunny and cool.  Clemens was up and shaved by six o’clock in order to be in time, though the train did not leave until four in the afternoon—­an express newly timed to stop at Redding—­its first trip scheduled for the day of Mark Twain’s arrival.

We were still playing billiards when word was brought up that the cab was waiting.  My daughter, Louise, whose school on Long Island had closed that day, was with us.  Clemens wore his white flannels and a Panama hat, and at the station a group quickly collected, reporters and others, to interview him and speed him to his new home.  He was cordial and talkative, and quite evidently full of pleasant anticipation.  A reporter or two and a special photographer came along, to be present at his arrival.

The new, quick train, the green, flying landscape, with glimpses of the Sound and white sails, the hillsides and clear streams becoming rapidly steeper and dearer as we turned northward:  all seemed to gratify him, and when he spoke at all it was approvingly.  The hour and a half required to cover the sixty miles of distance seemed very short.  As the train slowed down for the Redding station, he said: 

“We’ll leave this box of candy”—­he had bought a large box on the way —­“those colored porters sometimes like candy, and we can get some more.”