If I dwell unwarrantably on this phase of Mark Twain’s character, it is because it was always so fascinating to me, and the contemplation of the drama of the skies always meant so much to him, and somehow always seemed akin to him in its proportions.  He had been born under a flaming star, a wanderer of the skies.  He was himself, to me, always a comet rushing through space, from mystery to mystery, regardless of sun and systems.  It is not likely to rain long in Bermuda, and when the sun comes back it brings summer, whatever the season.  Within a day after our arrival we were driving about those coral roads along the beaches, and by that marvelously variegated water.  We went often to the south shore, especially to Devonshire Bay, where the reefs and the sea coloring seem more beautiful than elsewhere.  Usually, when we reached the bay, we got out to walk along the indurated shore, stopping here and there to look out over the jeweled water liquid turquoise, emerald lapis-lazuli, jade, the imperial garment of the Lord.

At first we went alone with only the colored driver, Clifford Trott, whose name Clemens could not recollect, though he was always attempting resemblances with ludicrous results.  A little later Helen Allen, an early angel-fish member already mentioned, was with us and directed the drives, for she had been born on the island and knew every attractive locality, though, for that matter, it would be hard to find there a place that was not attractive.

Clemens, in fact, remained not many days regularly at the hotel.  He kept a room and his wardrobe there; but he paid a visit to Bay House—­the lovely and quiet home of Helen’s parents—­and prolonged it from day to day, and from week to week, because it was a quiet and peaceful place with affectionate attention and limitless welcome.  Clifford Trott had orders to come with the carriage each afternoon, and we drove down to Bay House for Mark Twain and his playmate, and then went wandering at will among the labyrinth of blossom-bordered, perfectly kept roadways of a dainty paradise, that never, I believe, becomes quite a reality even to those who know it best.

Clemens had an occasional paroxysm during these weeks, but they were not likely to be severe or protracted; and I have no doubt the peace of his surroundings, the remoteness from disturbing events, as well as the balmy temperature, all contributed to his improved condition.

He talked pretty continuously during these drives, and he by no means restricted his subjects to juvenile matters.  He discussed history and his favorite sciences and philosophies, and I am sure that his drift was rarely beyond the understanding of his young companion, for it was Mark Twain’s gift to phrase his thought so that it commanded not only the respect of age, but the comprehension and the interest of youth.  I remember that once he talked, during an afternoon’s drive, on the French Revolution and the ridiculous episode of Anacharsis Cloots, “orator and advocate of the human race,” collecting the vast populace of France to swear allegiance to a king even then doomed to the block.  The very name of Cloots suggested humor, and nothing could have been more delightful and graphic than the whole episode as he related it.  Helen asked if he thought such a thing as that could ever happen in America.